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THE 


BIOGRAPHICAL 

HISTORY OF PHILOSOPHY, 


FROM ITS ORIGIN IN GREECE DOWN TO 
TIIE PRESENT DAY. 


BY 

GEORGE HENRY LEWES. 


“ Man is not born to solve the mystery of Existence ; but he must nevertheless attempt tt. 
in crder that he may learn how to keep within the limits of the Knowable.”— Goethe. 

‘ For I doubt not through the ages one increasing purpose runs. 

And the thoughts of men are widened by the process of the suns.” 

Tennyson. 


LIBRARY EDITION ,, 

MUCH ENLARGED AND THOROUGHLY REVISED. 


NEW YOBK: 

D. APPLETON AND COMPANY, 

549 & 551 BROADWAY. 

1875. 


3 72 . 
* 

)?7 S' 



J H r 

‘tofaZi. in m 

n, 









/ 


/ 3H 


PREFACE. 


7 ? 


This new edition may almost be considered as a new 
work, so many are the additions and so extensive the 
alterations. Seven new names have been added to the 
list of philosophers,— Abelard, Algazzali, Giordano 
Bruno, Hartley, Darwin, Cabanis, and Gall. An 
Introduction, setting forth the distinguishing character¬ 
istics of Philosophy and Science, replaces the original 
Introduction. Under the heads of Socrates, the Soph¬ 
ists, Aristotle, Bacon, Spinoza, Hume, Condillac, 
Iaant, and Eclecticism, considerable additions and alter¬ 
ations will be found; and, throughout, the revision has 
been such that scarcely a paragraph remains unaltered. 

The work was written ten years ago, and was ad¬ 
dressed to a popular audience. Ten years have not 
been without their influence on the historian; and 
moreover, the success of the work has so greatly ex¬ 
ceeded any thing that could reasonably have been anti¬ 
cipated—not only in resj^ect to sale, but in the directions 
of its influence—that on undertaking this Library Edi¬ 
tion I felt the necessity of modifying both the aim and 
scope of the work. A graver audience was to be ad¬ 
dressed, a graver tone adopted. Without forgetting the 
general public, I had now to think also of what students 
would require. Many polemical passages, many ex- 



IV 


PREFACE. 


tracts, and some digressions, have been removed; and 
the space thus gained has prevented the new matter 
from swelling the work to an inconvenient size. Many 
references and other bibliographical details have been 
added, although the principle of abstinence from unne¬ 
cessary citation has still been preserved. 

The labor bestowed on this Edition will, I hope, ren¬ 
der it more worthy of public acceptance. To my friend, 
the Eev. W. G. Clark, of Trinity College, Cambridge, 
an acknowledgment is due for the kindness with which 
he permitted me to profit by his accomplished scholar¬ 
ship and taste, in the revision of the proofs; but while 
thanking him publicly for his many suggestions and 
corrections, I must exonerate • him from every iota of 
responsibility either as to the opinions or the statements 
in this volume. 

The Introduction explains the purpose of this History 
and the principles of its composition; let me therefore 
only add here that, although availing myself of the la¬ 
bors of other historians and critics, I have not restricted 
myself to them. The works of the various philosophers, 
with rare exceptions, have been studied at first hand, 
and have furnished the extracts and abstracts; that is 
to say, I have either collected the passages myself, or 
have verified them by reference to the originals, in al¬ 
most all cases. "While, therefore, this History makes no 
pretension to a place beside the many erudite and com¬ 
prehensive Histories previously published, it claims to 
be regarded as something very different from a mere 
compilation. The novelty of its conception made direct 
acquaintance with the originals indispensable. Having 
to exhibit the Biography of Philosophy in its rise, 
growth, and development, I could not always have 


PREFACE. 


V 


drawn my material from writers wlio liad no sncli aim; 
many of tlie passages most significant for my purpose 
being totally disregarded by my predecessors. 

In another respect also I have innovated, namely, in 
the constant interweaving of criticism with exposition. 
This was necessary to my purpose of proving that no 
metaphysical system has had in it a principle of vitality; 
none has succeeded in establishing itself, because none 
deserved to succeed. In this way I have been led to 
express every conclusion to which the study of meta¬ 
physical problems has led me; in some places—espe¬ 
cially in the refutation of Sensationalism, and in the 
physiological discussion of psychological questions— 
I have been forced to content myself with a brief and 
imperfect exposition of my own views; and the reader 
is requested to regard them rather in their bearing as 
criticisms, than as expressing what I have to say on 
such difficult topics. 

The following list comprises some of the many general 
Histories which the student will find useful, should he 
desire ampler detail than was consistent with the size 
and plan of this volume : 

In English. —Bitter, History of Philosophy , 3 vols.; 
Tennemann, Manual of the History of Philosophy , 
1 vol.; Victor Cousin, Introduction to the History 
of Philosophy , 1 vol.; Morell, History of Specula¬ 
tive Philosophy in the nineteenth Century , 2 vols. 
(2d edition, much improved). 

In French .—Degerando, Histoire Comparee des Sys- 
temes de Philosophic , 4 vols. (2d editior); Benou- 
vier, Manuel de la Philosophic A.ncienne , 2 vols., 
and Manuel de la Philosophic Moderne , 1 vol.; 
Damir on, Histoire de la Philosophic en France an 


VI 


PREFACE. 


XIX Siecle , 1 vol.; Galuppi, Lettres Philosophic 
ques , 1 vol. 

In German. —Ritter, Geschichte dev Philosophies 9 vols.; 
Tennemann, Geschichte der Philosophies 11 vols.; 
Hegel, Geschichte der Philosophies 3 vols.; Zeller, 
Die Philosophic der Griechens 2 vols.; Brandis, 
Geschichte der Griechisch-Pomischen Philosophies 
2 vols. 


CONTENTS. 


PART I.—ANCIENT PHILOSOPHY. 

FAGS 

Introduction . xi 

FIRST EPOCH. 

Speculations on the Nature of the Universe. 

CHAPTER I. The Physicists.— Thales.—Anaximenes.—Diogenes of 
Apollonia. 1 

CHAPTER II. The Mathematicians. —Anaximander of Miletus.—Py¬ 
thagoras.—Philosophy of Pythagoras.—Translations from Aristotle’s 
Metaphysics . 10 

CHAPTER III. The Eleatics. — Xenophanes.—The Philosophy of 
Xenophanes.—Parmenides.—Zeno of Elea. 37 

SECOND EPOCH. 

Speculations on the Creation of the Universe , and, on the Origin of 

Knowledge. 

Heraclitus.—Anaxagoras.—Empedocles.—Democritus. 63 

THIRD EPOCH. 

Intellectual Crisis.—The Insufficiency of all Attempts towards a Solution 
of the Problem of Existence , as well as that of Knowledge , produces the 
Sophists. 

The Sophists. —What were they ?—Protagoras. 102 

FOURTH EPOCH. 

A New Era opened by the Invention of a New Method. 

Socrates. —The Life of Socrates.—Philosophy of Socrates. 122 

FIFTH EPOCH. 

Partial Adoption of the Socratic Method. 

The Megaric School.—Euclid.—The Cyrenaic School.—Aristippus.—The 
Cynics.—Antisthenes and Diogenes... 169 











CONTENTS. 


Fill 


SIXTH EPOCH. 

Complete Adoption and Application of the Socratic Method. 

Plato.— Life of Plato.—Plato’s Writings : their Character, Object, and 
Authenticity.—Plato’s Method.—Plato’s Ideal Theory.—Plato’s Psy¬ 
chology.—Summary of Plato’s Dialectics.—Plato’s Theology and 
Cosmology.—Plato’s View of the Beautiful and the Good.—Plato’s 
Ethics. 186 


SEVENTH EPOCH. 

Philosophy again reduced to a System: Close of the Socratic Movement .— 

Aristotle. 

CHAPTER I. Aristotle.— Life of Aristotle.—Aristotle’s Method.— 


Aristotle’s Logic.—Aristotle’s Metaphysics. 241 

CHAPTER II. Summary of the Socratic Movement . 266 

EIGHTH EPOCH. 


Second Crisis of GreeJc Philosophy: the Skeptics , Epicureans , Stoics , 


and the New Academy. 

CHAPTER I. The Skeptics. —Pyrrho. 268 

CHAPTER II. The Epicureans.— Epicurus . 274 

CHAPTER III. The Stoics. —Zeno. 281 

CHAPTER IV. The New Academt. —Arcesilaus and Carneades.293 

CHAPTER V. Summary of the Eighth Epoch. 305 

NINTH EPOCH. 


Philosophy allies itself with Faith: the Alexandrian Schools. 


CHAPTER I. Rise of Neo-Platonism.— Alexandria.—Philo. 307 

CHAPTER II. Antagonism of Christianity and Neo-Platonism. —Plo¬ 
tinus.—The Alexandrian Dialectics.—The Alexandrian Trinity.— 

The Doctrine of Emanation. 814 

CHAPTER III. Proclus. 332 

Conclusion of Ancient Philosophy. 336 


♦ 


PART II.—MODEPvN philosophy. 

TRANSITION PERIOD. 

i? rom Proclus to Bacon.— Scholasticism.—Life of Abelard.—Philosopny 
ot Abelard.—Algazzali.—Revival of Learning.—Giordano Bruno.... 84$ 















CONTENTS. 


IX 


FIRST EPOCH. 

Foundation of the Inductive Method. 

The Life of Bacon.—Bacon’s Method.—The Spirit of Bacon’s Method.— 

Was the Method New and Useful ?. 398 

SECOND EPOCH. 

Foundation of the Deductive Method. 

CHAPTER I. Descartes.—L ife of Descartes.—The Method of Des¬ 
cartes.—Application of the Method.—Is the Method True ?.435 

CHAPTER II. Spinoza.—S pinoza’s Life.—Spinoza’s Doctrine.456 

CHAPTER III. First Crisis in Modern Philosophy.493 

THIRD EPOCH. 

Philosophy reduced to a Question of Psychology. 

CHAPTER I. Hobbes.495 

CHAPTER II. Locke.—L ife of Locke.—On the Spirit of Locke's Wri¬ 
tings.—Locke’s Method.—The Origin of our Ideas.—Elements of 
Idealism and Skepticism in Locke.—Locke’s Critics. 506 

CHAPTER III. Leibnitz. 541 

CHAPTER IV. Summary of the Third Epoch. 546 

FOURTH EPOCH. 

The Subjective Nature of Knowledge leads to Idealism. 

Berkeley.—T he Life of Berkeley.—Berkeley and Common Sense.— 
Idealism. 549 

FIFTH EPOCH. 

The Arguments of Idealism carried out into Skepticism. 

Hume.—L ife of Hume.—Hume’s Skepticism.—Hume’s Theory of Causa¬ 
tion . 570 

SIXTH EPOCH. 

The Origin of Knowledge reduced to Sensation by the confusion oj 
Thought with Feeling: the Sensational School. 

CHAPTER I. Condillac.—L ife of Condillac.—Condillac’s System ... 589 

CHAPTER II. Hartley.—L ife of Hartley.—Hartley’s System. 603 

CHAPTER III. Darwin. 609 

SEVENTH EPOCH. 

Second Crisis: Idealism , Skepticism , and Sensationalism producing 
the Reaction of Common Sense. 

Reid. 618' 















CONTENTS. 


£ 


EIGHTH EPOCH. 

Recurrence to the Fundamental Question respecting the Origin of 

Knowledge. 

Kant. —Life of Kant.—Kant’s Historical Position.—Kant’s Psychology.— 
Consequences of Kant’s Psychology.—Examination of Kant’s Fun¬ 
damental Principles. 630 


NINTH EPOCH. 

Ontology reasserts its Claim.—The Demonstration of the Subjectivity 
of Knowledge once more leads to Idealism. 

CHAPTER I. Fichte.— Life of Fichte.—Fichte’s Historical Position.— 
Basis of Fichte’s System.—Fichte’s Idealism.—Application of Fichte’s 
Idealism. 675 

CHAPTER II. Schelling.— Life of Schelling.—Schelling’s Doctrines.. 705 

CHAPTER III. Hegel. —Life of Hegel.—Hegel’s Method.—Absolute 
Idealism.—Hegel’s Logic.—Application of the Method to Nature and 


History, Religion and Philosophy.715 

TENTH EPOCH. 

Psychology seeking its Basis in Physiology. 

CHAPTER I. Cabanis . 740 

CHAPTER II. Phrenology.— Life of Gall.—Gall’s Historical Position. 

—Cranioscopy.—Phrenology as a Science. 749 


ELEVENTH EPOCH. 

Philosophy finally relinquishing its Place in favor of Positive Science. 


CHAPTER I. Eclecticism . 769 

CHAPTER II. Auguste Comte . 776 

CONCLUSION. 788 

INDEX. 791 











INTRODUCTION. 


§ I. On the Distinction between Philosophy and Science. 

Philosophy is everywhere in Europe fallen into discredit. 
Once the pride and glory of the greatest intellects, and still 
forming an important element of liberal culture, its present de¬ 
cadence is attested no less by the complaints of its few followers 
than by the thronging ranks of its opponents. Few now believe 
in its large promises; still fewer devote to it that passionate pa¬ 
tience which is devoted by thousands to Science. Every day 
the conviction gains strength that Philosophy is condemned, by 
the very nature of its impulses, to wander forever in one tortu¬ 
ous labyrinth within whose circumscribed and winding spaces 
weary seekers are continually finding themselves in the trodden 
tracks of predecessors, who, they know, could find no exit. 

Philosophy has been ever in movement, but the movement 
has been circular; and this fact is thrown into stronger relief by 
contrast with the linear progress of Science. Instead of perpet¬ 
ually finding itself, after years of gigantic endeavor, returned to 
the precise point from which it started, Science finds itself year 
by year, and almost day by day, advancing step by step, each 
accumulation of power adding to the momentum of its progress; 
each evolution, like the evolutions of organic development, bring¬ 
ing with it a new functional superiority, which in its turn be¬ 
comes the agent of higher developments. Not a fact is discov¬ 
ered but has its bearing on the whole body of doctrine; not a 
mechanical improvement in the construction of instruments but 
opens fresh sources of discovery. Onward, and forever onward, 
mightier and forever mightier, rolls this wondrous tide of discov¬ 
ery, and the “ thoughts of men are widened by the process of 
the suns.” While the first principles of Philosophy are to this 
day as much a matter of dispute as they were two thousand 
vears ago, the first principles of Science are securely established, 



Xll 


INTRODUCTION. 


and form the guiding lights of European progress. Precisely 
the same questions are agitated in Germany at the present mo¬ 
ment that were agitated in ancient Greece; and with no more 
certain Methods of solving them, with no nearer hopes of ulti¬ 
mate success. The History of Philosophy presents the specta¬ 
cle of thousands of intellects—some the greatest that have made 
our race illustrious—steadily concentrated on problems believed 
to be of vital importance, yet producing no other result than a 
conviction of the extreme facility of error, and the remoteness of 
any probability that Truth can be reached.* The only conquest 
has been critical, that is to say, psychological. Vainly do some 
argue that Philosophy has made no progress hitherto, because 
its problems are so complex, and require more effort than the 
simpler problems of Science ; vainly are we warned not to con¬ 
clude from the past to the future, averring that no progress will 
be made because no progress has been made. Perilous as it 
must ever be to set absolute limits to the future of human ca¬ 
pacity, there can be no peril in averring that Philosophy never 
will achieve its aims, because those aims lie beyond all human 
scope. The difficulty is impossibility. Ho progress can be 
made because no certainty is possible. To aspire to the knowl¬ 
edge of more than phenomena,—their resemblances, co-exist¬ 
ences, and successions,—is to aspire to transcend the inexorable 
limits of human faculty. To know more, we must be more. 

The reader will have perceived that I use the word Philosophy 
in some restricted sense; and as this is the sense which will be 
attached to it throughout the present History, an explanation 
becomes requisite. In all countries the word Philosophy has 
come to be used with large latitude, designating indeed any and 
every kind of speculative inquiry; nay, in England, as Hegel 
notices with scorn,f microscopes, telescopes, barometers, and 
balances, are freely baptized “ philosophical instruments—New- 

* Compare Kant in the Preface to the 2d ed. of the Kritik der reinen Ver- 
rmrift : “Der Metaphysik . . . ist das Schicksal bisher noch so giinstig 
nicht gewesen dass sie den sichern Gang einer Wissenschaft einzuschlagen 
vermogt hatte; ob sie gleich alter ist als alle librige. . . . Es ist also kein 
Zweifel dass ihr Verfahren bisher ein blosses Herumtappen, nnd, was das 
Bchlimmste ist, unter blossen Begriffen gewesen sey.” 

+ Geschichte der Philosophic, i. 72. 



INTRODUCTION. 


XIII 


ton is called a philosopher; and even Parliamentary proceedings 
get named philosophical;—so wide a range is given to this 
word. Such expressions may be criticised, but no criticism will 
root them out of our language ; and it is futile to argue against 
whatever has become thus familiar and extensive. Neverthe¬ 
less, when any one undertakes to write a History of Philosophy, 
he must define the limits of his undertaking ; and as I have not 
the slightest intention of including either microscopic inquiries, 
or Parliamentary debates, within my narrative, but of rigorously 
limiting it to such topics as are comprised in other Histories of 
Philosophy, it is indispensable to define the word “ Philosophy,” 
by limiting it exclusively to Metaphysics, in direct antithesis to 
Science. This is the sense it bears in all other Histories; except 
that the demarcation from Science is not always rigorously made. 

In the early days of speculation all Philosophy was essentially 
metaphysical, because Science had not distinctly emerged. The 
particular sciences then cultivated, no less than the higher gene¬ 
ralities on Life, Destiny, and the Universe, were studied on one 
and the same Method ; but in the course of human evolution a 
second Method grew up, at first timidly and unconsciously, grad¬ 
ually enlarging its bounds as it enlarged its powers, and at last 
separating itself into open antagonism with its parent and rival. 
The child then destroyed its parent; as the mythic Zeus, calling 
the Titans to his aid, destroyed Saturn and usurped his throne. 
Observation and Experiment were the Titans of the new Method. 

There are many who deplore the encroachment of Science, 
fondly imagining that Philosophy would respond better to the 
wants of man. This regret is partly unreasoning sentiment, 
partly ignorance of the limitations of human faculty. Even 
among those who admit that Philosophy is an impossible at¬ 
tempt, there are many who think it should be persevered in, be¬ 
cause of the lofty views it is supposed to open to us. This is as 
if a man desirous of going to America should insist on walking 
there, because journeys on foot are more poetical than journeys 
by rail and steam ; in vain is he shown the impossibility of 
crossing the Atlantic on foot; he admits that grovelling fact, 
but his lofty soul has visions of some mysterious overland route 
by which he will pass. lie dies without reaching America, but 


XIV 


INTRODUCTION. 


to the last gasp he maintains that he has discovered the route 
on which others may reach it. 

0 Reader! let us hear no more of the lofty views claimed as 
the exclusive privilege of Philosophy. Ignorant indeed must the 
man be who nowadays is unacquainted with the grandeur and 
sweep of scientific speculation in Astronomy and Geology, or 
who has never been thrilled by the revelations of the Telescope 
and Microscope. The heights and depths of man’s nature, the 
heights to which he aspires, the depths into which he searches, 
and the grander generalities on Life, Destiny, and the Universe, 
find as eminent a place in Science as in Philosophy, with the 
simple difference that they are less vague and are better founded. 
And even were we compelled to acknowledge that the lofty 
views of Philosophy were excluded from Science, the earnest 
mind would surely barter such loftiness for Truth. Our strug¬ 
gle, our passion, our hope, is for Truth, not for loftiness ; for sin¬ 
cerity, not for pretence. If we cannot reach certain heights, let 
us acknowledge them to be inaccessible, and not deceive our¬ 
selves and others by phrases which pretend that these heights 
are accessible. Bentham warns us against “ question-begging 
epithets;” and one of these is the epithet “lofty,” with which 
Philosophy allures the unwary student. As a specimen of the 
sentiment so inappropriately dragged in to decide questions not 
of sentiment but of truth, consider the following passage deliver¬ 
ed from the professorial chair to students whose opinions were to 
be formed : 

“A spirit of most misjudging contempt has for many years 
become fashionable towards the metaphysical contemplations of 
the elder sages. Alas ! I cannot understand on what principles. 
Is it, then, a matter to be exulted in that we have at length dis¬ 
covered that our faculties are only formed for earth and earthly 
phenomena? Are we to rejoice at our ow T n limitations, and 
delight that we can be cogently demonstrated to be prisoners of 
sense and the facts of sense ? In those early struggles after a 
higher and more perfect knowledge, and in the forgetfulness of 
every inferior science through the very ardor of the pursuit, 
there is at least a glorious, an irresistible testimony to the loftier 
destinies of man; and it might almost be pronounced that in 



INTRODUCTION. 


XV 


such a view, their very errors evidence a truth higher than al 
our discoveries can disclose! When Lord Bacon, with his clear 
and powerful reasonings, led our thinkers from these ancient 
regions of thought (then newly opened to the modern world) to 
the humbler but more varied and extensive department of induc¬ 
tive inquiry, I represent to myself that angel-guide, all light and 
grace, who is pictured by our great poet as slowly conducting 
the first of our race from Paradise, to leave him in a world, vast, 
indeed, and varied, but where thorns and thistles abounded, and 
food—often uncertain and often perilous—was to be gained only 
by the sweat of the brow and in the downcast attitude of servile 
toil"* 

It would be an insult to the reader’s understanding to answer 
the several absurdities and “ question-begging” positions of this 
passage, which however is a typical specimen of much that may 
be met in modern writers; all that I feel called upon to notice 
is the opening sentence. Contempt for the metaphysical specu¬ 
lations of the elder sages is the last feeling I should acknowledge, 
however erroneous I may believe them to be. They were the 
precursors of modern Science. Without them we should have 
been in darkness. The forlorn hope of Humanity can never be 
an object of contempt. We follow the struggles of the early 
thinkers with intense interest, because we trace in their defeats 
the causes of future victory. 

The historical connection of Science with Philosophy, and the 
essential differences between them, which led to their separation 
and the final neglect of Philosophy, will be understood better 
when the characteristics of the two are clearly set forth. The 
object of both is the same, namely, Explanation of all phenom¬ 
ena. Their characteristic differences, therefore, do not lie in the 
thing sought, so much as in the Method of search. I have met 
with no satisfactory statement of these characteristic differences; 
and the readiest way I can think of to make them intelligible, 
will be to exhibit the Metaphysical and Scientific Methods in 


* Archer Butler, Lectures on the Hist, of Ancient Philosophy , ii. 109. The 
varied and accurate erudition of Mr. W. II. Thompson’s notes to these lec¬ 
tures gives these volumes their chief value. 



XVI 


INTRODUCTION. 


operation on the search after the causes of the same phenome¬ 
non ; for instance, that of “ Table-turning.”* 

A few persons stand round a table, gently resting their hands 
on it, but sedulously careful not to push in any direction. In a 
little while the table moves, at first slowly, afterwards with grow¬ 
ing velocity. The persons are all of the highest respectability, 
above suspicion of wilful deceit. The phenomenon is so unex¬ 
pected, so unprecedented, that an explanation is imperiously de¬ 
manded. We have here an illustration of the origin of Philoso¬ 
phy. In presence of unusual phenomena, men are unable to 
remain without some explanation which shall render intelligible 
to them how the unusual event is produced. They are specta¬ 
tors merely; condemned to witness the event, unable to pene¬ 
trate directly into its causes, unable to get behind the scenes 
and see the strings which move the puppets, they guess at what 
they cannot see. In this way Man is interpres Naturae . Whether 
he be metaphysician or man of science, his starting-point is the 
same; and they are in error who say that the metaphysician 
differs from the man of science in drawing his explanation from 
the recesses of his own mind in lieu of drawing it from the ob¬ 
servation of facts. Both observe facts, and both draw their in¬ 
terpretations from their own minds. Nay, strictly considered, 
there is necessarily, even in the most familiar fact, the annexa¬ 
tion of mental inference—something added by the mind, sug¬ 
gested by, but not given in, the immediate observation. Facts 
are the registration of direct observation and indirect inference, 
congeries of particulars partly sensational, partly ideal. The sci¬ 
entific value of facts depends on the validity of the inferences bound 
up with them ; and hence the profound truth of Cullen’s paradox, 
that there are more false facts than false theories current. 

The facts comprised in the phenomenon of “ Table-turning” 

* There is difficulty in selecting a suitable illustration, because if an un¬ 
disputed scientific truth be chosen, the reader may not be able to place him¬ 
self at the metaphysical point of view: whereas if a disputed point bo 
chosen he may perhaps himself adopt the metaphysical explanation, and re¬ 
ruse to acknowledge the scientific explanation. “ Table-turning” escapes 
both objections. The mania is sufficiently recent to permit our vividly real¬ 
izing the mental condition of the theorists; and the error is sufficiently ex¬ 
ploded to admit of being treated as an error. 



INTRODUCTION. 


XVU 

are by no means so simple as they have been represented. Let 
us however reserve all criticism, and fix our attention solely on 
the phenomenon, which, expressed in rigorous terms, amounts to 
this:—the table turns; the cause of its turning unknown. To 
explain this, one class of metaphysical minds refers it to the 
agency of an unseen spirit: connecting this spiritual manifesta¬ 
tion with others which have been familiar to him, the interpreter 
finds no difficulty in believing that a spirit moved the table; for 
the movement assuredly issued from no human agency; the re¬ 
spectable witnesses declare they did not push. Unless the table 
moved itself, therefore, the conclusion must be that it was moved 
by a spirit. 

Minds of another class gave another explanation, one equally 
metaphysical, although its advocates scornfully rejected the spir¬ 
itual hypothesis. These minds were indisposed to admit the ex¬ 
istence of Spirits as agents in natural phenomena; but their in¬ 
terpretation, in spite of its employing the language of science, 
was as utterly removed from scientific induction as the spiritual 
interpretation they despised. They attributed the phenomenon 
to Electricity. Connecting this supposed electrical manifestation 
with some other facts which seemed to warrant the belief of ner¬ 
vous action being identical with electricity, they had no hesita¬ 
tion in affirming that electricity streamed from the tips of the 
fingers ; and it was even suggested by one gentleman that “ the 
nervous fluid had probably a rotatory action, and a power of 
throwing off some of its surplus force.” 

Each of these explanations was very widely accepted by the 
general public, although few persons of any reasoning power 
now accept them. The obvious defect in both lies in the utter 
absence of any guarantee. We ought to be satisfied with no 
explanation which is without its valid guarantee. Before we 
purchase silver spoons we demand to see the mark of Silver¬ 
smiths’ Hall, to be assured that the spoous are silver, and not 
plated only. The test of the assayer dispels our misgivings. In 
like manner when the motion of a table is explained by spiritual 
agency, instead of debating whether the spirit bring airs from 
heaven or blasts from hell, we suffer our skepticism to fall on the 
preliminary assumption of the spirit’s presence. Prove the pres 

2 


XV111 


INTRODUCTION. 


ence of the spirit, before you ask us to go further. We may 
admit that, if present, the spirit is capable of producing this mo¬ 
tion of the table; but we cannot permit you to assume such a 
presence merely to explain such a movement; for if the fact to 
be explained is sufficient proof of the explanation, we might 
with equal justice assume that the movement was caused by an 
invisible dragon who turned the table by the fanning of his awful 
wings. 

A similar initial error is observable in the electrical hypothesis. 
Electricity may be a less intrinsically improbable assumption, but 
its presence requires proof. After that step had been taken, we 
should require proof that electricity could comport itself with 
reference to tables and similar bodies in this particular manner. 
We have various tests for the presence of electricity; various 
means of ascertaining how it would act upon a table. But see¬ 
ing that the gentleman who spoke so confidently of “ currents 
issuing from the tips of the fingers’- never once attempted to 
prove that there were currents ; and knowing moreover that these 
currents, if present, would not make a table turn, all men of true 
scientific culture dismissed the explanation with contempt. 

Such were the metaphysical Methods of explaining the phe¬ 
nomenon. Let us now watch the scientific Method. The point 
sought is the unknown cause of the table’s movement. To reach 
the unknown we must pass through the avenues of the known ; 
we must not attempt to reach it through the unknown. Is 
there any known fact with which this movement can be allied ? 
The first and most obvious suggestion is, that the table was 
pushed by the hands which rested on it. There is a difficulty 
in the way of this explanation, namely, that the persons declare 
solemnly they did not push; and, as persons of the highest re¬ 
spectability, we are bound to believe them. Is this statement of 
any value ? The whole question is involved in it. But the phi¬ 
losophical mind is very little affected by guarantees of respecta¬ 
bility in matters implicating sagacity rather than integrity. 
The Frenchman assured his friend that the earth did turn round 
the sun, and offered his parole cThonneur as a guarantee; but in 
the delicate and difficult questions of science paroles cChonneur 
have a quite inappreciable weight. We may therefore set aside 


INTRODUCTION. 


NIX 


the respectability of the witnesses, and, with full confidence in 
their integrity, estimate the real value of their assertion, which 
amounts to this : they were not conscious of pushing. We now 
see that the fact, which was imagined to be simple, namely, that 
“ the persons did not push,” turns out to be excessively dubious, 
namely, “ they were not conscious of pushing.” If we come to 
examine such a case, we find Physiology iu possession of abun¬ 
dant examples of muscular action accompanied by no distinct 
consciousness, and some of these examples are very similar to 
those of the unconscious pushing, which may have turned the 
table; and we are thus satisfied of three important points:— 
1. Pushing is an adequate cause, and will serve to explain the 
movement of the table, as well as either the supposed spirit or 
electricity. 2. Pushing may take place without any distinct 
consciousness on the part of those who push. 3. Expectant at¬ 
tention is known to produce such a state of the muscles as would 
occasion this unconscious pushing. 

Considered therefore as a mere hypothesis, this of unconscious 
pushing is strictly scientific; it may not be true, but it has ful¬ 
filled the preliminary conditions. Unlike the two hypotheses it 
opposes, it assumes nothing previously unknown, or not easily 
demonstrable ; every position has been verified; whereas the 
metaphysicians have not verified one of their positions: they 
have not proved the presence of their agents, nor have they 
proved that these agents, if present, would act in the required 
manner. Of spirit we know nothing, consequently can predicate 
nothing. Of electricity we know something, but what is known 
is not in accordance with the table-turning hypothesis. Of push¬ 
ing we know that it can and does turn tables. All then that is 
required to convert this latter hypothesis into scientific certainty, 
is to prove the presence of the pushing in this particular case. 
And it is proved in many ways, positive and negative, as I showed 
when the phenomenon first became the subject of public investi¬ 
gation. Positive, because if the hands rest on a loose table¬ 
cloth, or on substances with perfectly smooth surfaces which 
will glide easily over the table, the cloth or the substances will 
move, and not the table. Negative, because if the persons are 
duly learned of their liability to unconscious pushing, and are 


XX 


INTRODUCTION. 


told to keep vigilant guard over their sensations, they do not 
move the table, although previously they have moved it fre¬ 
quently. When we have thus verified the presence of uncon¬ 
scious pushing, all the links in the chain have been verified, and 
certainty is complete. 

Reviewing the three explanations which the phenomenon of 
table-turning called forth, we elicit one characteristic as distin¬ 
guishing the scientific Method, namely, the verification of each 
stage in the process, the guaranteeing of each separate point, the 
cultivated caution of proceeding to the unknown solely through 
the avenues of the known. The germinal difference, then, be¬ 
tween the metaphysical and scientific Methods, is not that they 
draw their explanations from a different source, the one employ¬ 
ing Reasoning where the other employs Observation, but that 
the one is content with an explanation which has no further 
guarantee than is given in the logical explanation of the diffi¬ 
culty ; whereas the other imperatively demands that every as¬ 
sumption should be treated as provisional, hypothetical, until it 
has been confronted with fact, tested by acknowledged tests, in 
a word, verified. The guarantee of the metaphysician is purely 
logical, subjective: it is the intellectus sibi permissus; the 
guarantee of the other is derived from a correspondence of the 
idea with experience. As Bacon says, all merely logical explana¬ 
tions are valueless, the subtlety of nature greatly surpassing that 
of argument: “ Subtilitas natura3 subtilitatem argumentandi 
multis partibus supenatand he further says, with his usual 
felicity, “ Sed axiomata a particularibus rite et ordine abstracta 
nova particulars rursus facile indicant et designant.” It is these 
“new particulars” which are reached through those already 
known, and complete the links of the causal chain. 

Open the history of Science at any chapter you will, and its 
pages will show how all the errors which have gained acceptance 
gained it because this important principle of verification of par¬ 
ticulars was neglected. Incessantly the mind of man leaps for¬ 
ward to “ anticipate” Nature, and is satisfied with such anticipa¬ 
tions if they have a logical consistence. When Galen and Aris¬ 
totle thought that the air circulated in the arteries, causing the 
pulse to beat, and cooling the temperature of the blood, they 


INTRODUCTION. 


XXI 


were content with this plausible anticipation ; they did not verify 
the facts of the air’s presence, and its cooling effect; when they 
said that the “ spirituous blood” nourished the delicate organs, 
such as the lungs, and the “ venous blood” nourished the coarser 
organs, such as the liver; when they said that the “spirit,” 
which was the purer element of the blood, was formed in the 
left ventricle, and the venous blood in the right ventricle, they 
contented themselves with unverified assumptions. In like man¬ 
ner, when in our own day physiologists of eminence maintain 
that in the organism there is a Vital Force which suspends chem¬ 
ical actions, they content themselves with a metaphysical unver¬ 
ified interpretation of phenomena. If they came to rigorous 
confrontation with fact, they would see that so far from chemical 
action being “ suspended” it is incessantly at work in the organ¬ 
ism ; the varieties observable being either due to a difference of 
conditions (which will produce varieties out of the organism), or 
to the fact that the action is masked by other actions. 

If the foregoing discussion has carried with it the reader’s as¬ 
sent, he will perceive that the distinguishing characteristic of 
Science is its Method of graduated Verification, and not, as some 
think, the employment of Induction in lieu of Deduction. All 
Science is deductive, and deductive in proportion to its separa¬ 
tion from ordinary knowledge , and its co-ordination into sys¬ 
tematic Science. “ Although all sciences tend to become more 
and more deductive,” says a great authority, “ they are not 
therefore the less inductive; every step in the deduction is still 
an induction. The opposition is not between the terms Induc¬ 
tive and Deductive, but between Deductive and Experimental.”* 
Experiment is the great instrument of Verification. The differ¬ 
ence between the ancient and modern philosophies lies in the 
facility with which the one accepted axioms and hypotheses as 
the basis for its deductions, and the cultivated caution with which 
the other insists on verifying its axioms and hypotheses before 

* Mill’s System of Logic: perhaps the greatest contribution to English 
speculation since Locke’s Essay . Had Mr. Mill invented a new terminology 
and expressed himself with less clearness, he would assuredly have gained 
that reputation for profundity which, by a thorough misconception ot the 
nature of thought, i* so often awarded to obscurity. 




xxi] 


INTRODUCTION. 


deducing conclusions from them. TV e guess as freely as the 
ancients ; but we know that we are guessing; and if we chance 
to forget it, our rivals quickly remind us that our guess is not 
evidence. Without guessing, Science would be impossible. We 
should never discover new islands, did we not often venture sea¬ 
wards with intent to sail beyond the sunset. To find new land, 
we must often quit sight of land. As Mr Thompson admirably 
expresses it:—“Philosophy proceeds upon a system of credit, 
and if she never advanced beyond her tangible capital, our wealth 
would not be so enormous as it is.”* While both metaphysician 
and man of science trade on a system of credit, they do so with 
profoundly different views of its aid. The metaphysician is a 
merchant who speculates boldly, but without that convertible 
capital which can enable him to meet his engagements. He 
gives bills, yet has no gold, no goods to answer for them ; these 
bills are not representative of wealth which exists iu any ware¬ 
house. Magnificent as his speculations seem, the first obstinate 
creditor who insists on payment makes him bankrupt. The 
man of science is also a venturesome merchant, but one fullv 
alive to the necessity of solid capital which can on emergency be 
produced to meet his bills ; he knows the risks he runs whenever 
that amount of capital is exceeded ; he knows that bankruptcy 
awaits him if capital be not forthcoming. 

The contrast therefore between Philosophy and Science, or 
Metaphysics and Positive Philosophy, is a contrast of Method ; 
but we must not suppose that the Method of the one is Deduc¬ 
tion, while that of the other is Observation. Nothing can be 
more erroneous than the vulgar notion of the “ Inductive Method,” 
as one limited to the observation of facts. Every instructed 

J 

thinker # knows that facts of observation are particular theories ; 
that is to say, every fact which is registered as an observation is 
constituted by a synthesis of sensation and inference. We shall 
see this illustrated presently. To it must be added the truth 
that Science is constantly making discoveries by Reasoning alone, 
aloof from any immediate exercise of Observation, aloof indeed 
from the very phenomena it classifies; for when facts are regis- 


* 


Outlines of the laws of Thought , p. 312. 



INTRODUCTION. Xxiii 

fcered in formulas, we resign ourselves to the manipulation of 
these formulas as symbols or equations, assured that the result 
will accord with Nature. Fresnel predicted the change in polar¬ 
ization from no observation of facts immediately lying before 
him, but from a happy elucidation of algebraic symbols. As¬ 
tronomy is more studied on paper than through the telescope, 
which however is called upon to verify the results figured on 
paper. So that if we compare car astronomical and geological 
theories with the cosmical speculations of a Plato or a Hegel, 
we shall not find them deficient in the speculative daring which 
outruns the slow process of observation, but we shall find the 
difference to lie initially in the rigor with which our deductive 
formulas are established, and in the different estimates we form 
of what is valid evidence. 

Galileo made Astronomy a science when he began to seek the 
unknown through the known, and to interpret celestial phenom¬ 
ena by those laws of motion which were recognized on the sur¬ 
face of the earth. Geology became possible as a science when 
its principal phenomena were explained by those laws of the 
action of water, visibly operating in every river, estuary, and bay. 
Except in the grandeur of its sweep, the mind pursues the same 
course in the interpretation of geological facts which record the 
annals of the universe, as in the interpretation of the ordinary 
incidents of daily life. To read the pages of the great Stone- 
book, and to perceive from the wet streets that rain has recently 
fallen, are the same intellectual processes. In the one case the 
mind traverses immeasurable spaces of time, and infers that the 
phenomena were produced by causes similar to those which have 
produced similar phenomena within recent experience ; in the 
other case, the mind similarly infers that the wet streets and 
swollen gutters have been produced by the same cause we have 
frequently observed to produce them. Let the inference span 
with its mighty arch a myriad of years, or span but a few min¬ 
utes, in each case it rises from the ground of certain familiar indi¬ 
cations, and reaches an antecedent known to be capable of pro¬ 
ducing these indications. Both inferences may be wrong: the 
wet streets may have been wetted by a water-cart, or by the 
bursting of a pipe. We cast about for some other indication of 





XXIV 


INTRODUCTION. 


rain besides the wetness of the streets and the turbid rush of 
gutters, which might equally have been produced by the burst¬ 
ing of a water-pipe. If we see passers-by carrying wet umbrellas, 
some still held above the head, our inference is strengthened by 
this indication, that rain, and no other cause, produced the phe¬ 
nomena. In like manner, the geologist casts about for other 
indications besides those of the subsidence of water, and as they 
accumulate, his conviction strengthens. 

While this is the course of Science, the course of Philosophy 
is very different. Its inferences start from no well-grounded 
basis; the arches they throw are not from known fact to un¬ 
known fact, but from some unknown to some other unknown. 
Deductions are drawn from the nature of God, the nature of 
Spirit, the essences of Things, and from what Reason can postu¬ 
late. Rising from such mists, the arch so brilliant to look upon 
is after all a rainbow, not a bridge. 

To make his method legitimate, the Philosopher must first 
prove that a co-ordinate correspondence exists between Nature 
and his Intuitional Reason,* so that whatever is true of the one 
must be true of the other. The geologist, for example, pro¬ 
ceeds on the assumption that the action of waters was essen¬ 
tially the same millions of years ago as it is in the present day ; 
so that whatever can be positively proved of it now , may be con¬ 
fidently asserted of it then. lie subsequently brings evidence 
to corroborate his assumption by showing that the assumption is 
necessary and competent to explain facts not otherwise to be 
consistently explained. But does the Philosopher stand in a 
similar position ? Does he show any validity in his preliminary 
assumption ? Does he produce any evidence for the existence of 
a nexus between his Intuitional Reason and those noumena or 
essences, about which he reasons; does he show the probability 
of there being such a correspondence between the two, that what 

* By Intuitional Reason I here wish to express what the Germans call 
Vernunft , which they distinguish from Verstand, as Coleridge tried to make 
Englishmen distinguish between Reason and Understanding. The term 
Reason is too deeply rooted in our language to be twisted into any new direc¬ 
tion ; and I hope by the unusual “ Intuitional Reason” to keep the reader’s 
attention alive to the fact that by it is designated the process of the minu 
engaged in transcendental inquiry. 



INTRODUCTION. 


XXV 


is true of the one may be accepted as probable of the other ? 
Jsothing of the kind. He assumes that it is so. He assumes, as 
a preliminary to all Philosophy, that Intuitional Reason is com¬ 
petent to deliver verdicts, even when the evidence is entirely 
furnished by itself. He assumes that Intuitions are face to face 
with Existences, and have consequently immediate knowledge o» 
them. But this immense assumption, this gratuitous begging oi 
the whole question, can only be permitted after a demonstration 
that the contrary assumption must be false. Now it is certain 
that we can assume the contrary, and assume it on evidence as 
cogent as that which furnishes his assumption. I can assume 
that Intuitions are not face to face with Existences; indeed this 
assumption seems to me by far the most probable; and it is 
surely as valid as the one it opposes ? I call upon the metaphy¬ 
sician to prove the validity of his assumption, or the invalidity 
of mine. I call upon him for some principle of verification. He 
may tell me (as in past years the Hegelians used to tell me, not 
without impatience) that “ Reason must verify itself;” but un¬ 
happily Reason has no such power ; for if it had, Philosophy 
would not be disputing about first principles; and when it claims 
the power, who is to answer for its accuracy, quis custodiet iq^sos 
custodes ? If Philosophy is possible, its only basis rests on the 
correspondence between Nature and Intuitional Reason. But a 
correct analysis of our intellectual processes will furnish a solvent 
which will utterly destroy the last shred of organic basis out of 
which Philosophy grows. 

Reasoning, if I rightly apprehend it, is the same intellectual 
process as Perception, with this difference, that Perception is in¬ 
ferential respecting objects present , and Reasoning is inferential 
respecting objects absent. In the laxity of current language, 
sensations and perceptions are almost convertible terms ; but if 
we rigorously separate from our perceptions all those elements 
not actually given in the momentary sensations, it will be evident 
that Perception is distinguished from Sensation by the addition 
of certain inferences: as when we perceive a substance to be 
hard, square, odorous, sweet, etc., from certain inferences rising 
out of its form, color, etc., although we do not actually touch, 
smell, or taste the object. TV hat is this process of inference ? It 


XXVI 


INTRODUCTION. 


is a presentation before the consciousness of something which has 
been formerly observed in conjunction with the object, and is 
therefore supposed to be now actually present in fact, although 
not present in sensation. I have no sensation of sweetness when 
I see the lump of sugar ; but the sight of the sugar brings before 
my consciousness the sweetness, which the sugar will bring to 
my sensibility when in contact with my tongue. I perceive the 
sweetness; and I do this by making present to my mind what is 
absent from sense. I infer that the lump of white substance be¬ 
fore me is sugar, as I infer that it rains when I see, from my 
window, water falling on the streets. In both cases the inference 
may be wrong. The white substance may be salt; the falling 
water may be the spray of the garden-hose. But in each and 
every case of Perception, a something is added to the Sensation, 
and that something is inferential, or the assumption of some 
quality present in fact which is not present in sense. 

Reasoning is likewise inferential, but about objects which, al¬ 
though they were formerly given in sense, are now absent alto¬ 
gether. Reasoning is the presentation before the consciousness, 
of objects which, if actually present, would affect the conscious¬ 
ness in a similar way. It mentally supplies their existence. 
Thus, when from the wet streets and turbulent gutters I conclude, 
or infer, that it has rained, I make present to myself the phe¬ 
nomena of falling water in somewhat the same order as the fall¬ 
ing water would follow if present. On closely attending to any 
chain of Reasoning we shall find that if it were possible to real¬ 
ize all the links in the chain, i. e. so to place the actual objects in 
their connected series that we could see them, this mental series 
would become a visible series, and, in lieu of reasonings, would 
afford direct perceptions. Good reasoning is the ideal assem¬ 
blage of facts, and their ^-presentation to the mind in the order 
of their actual series. It is seeing with the mind’s eye. Bad 
reasoning will always be found to depend on some of the objects 
not being mentally present; some links in the chain are dropped 
or overlooked ; some objects instead of being re-presented are 
left absent, or are presented so imperfectly that the inferences 
from them are as erroneous as the inferences from imperfect 
vision are erroneous. Bad reasoning is imperfect re-presentation. 


INTRODUCTION. 


XXVI1 


This explanation of the intellectual operations is, I believe, 
Hovel; should it be accepted, it will light up many obscure ques¬ 
tions. But for the present we must only notice its bearing on 
Philosophy. When the table-turners concluded that electricity 
was the cause of the table’s movement, they did not make present 
to their minds the real facts of electricity and its modes of opera¬ 
tions; otherwise they would have seen that electricity would not 
turn the table round, and they would have seen this almost as 
vividly as if a battery had been then and there applied to the 
table. Faraday, on the contrary, did make these facts mentally 
present, so as not to need the actual presence of a battery; and 
his correct reasoning might not be owing to any greater general 
vigor of ratiocination, but to his greater power of making these 
particular facts mentally present. Describe an invention to Dr. 
Neil Arnott, and he will be able to reason on its practicability 
almost as well as if he saw the machine in operation : because 
he can mentally make present to himself all the details of struc¬ 
ture, and from these infer all the details of action, just as his 
direct inferences would follow the actual presentation of the 
objects. There are two modes of detecting false logic, and there 
are but two : either we must reduce the argument to a series of 
sensations—make the facts in question visible to sense, and show 
that the sequences and co-existences of these facts are not what 
the reasoner asserted them to be ; or we must mentally supply 
the place of this visible demonstration, and by re-presenting the 
objects before the mind, see where their sequences and co-exist¬ 
ences differ from what the reasoner asserted them to be. 

If all Reasoning be the re-presentation of what is now absent 
but formerly was present, and can again be made present,—in 
other words, if the test of accurate reasoning is its reduction to 
tact,—then is it evident that Philosophy, dealing with transcen¬ 
dental objects which cannot be present, and employing a Method 
which admits of no verification (or reduction to the test of fact) 
must be an impossible attempt. And it I am asked how it is 
that philosophers have reasoned at all on transcendental subjects, 
since according to my statement they could only reason by 
making such subjects present to their minds, the reply is that 
they could not, and did not, make present to their minds any 


XXV111 


INTRODUCTION. 


such subjects at all; the Infinite was really conceived bv them 
as Finite, the Unconditioned as Conditioned, Spirit as Body, 
Noumenon as Phenomenon ; for only thus were these things 
conceivable at all. Thus it is only possible to take the first step 
in Philosophy by bringing transcendental subjects within the 
sphere of experience, i. e. making them no longer transcendental. 
Thus, and thus only, is it possible for us to reason on such topics. 

All this will doubtless be utterly denied by metaphysicians. 
They proceed on the assumption that Intuitional Reason, which 
is independent of experience, is absolute and final in its guaran¬ 
tee. The validity of its conclusions is self-justified. Hegel 
boldly says, “ Whatever is rational is real, and whatever is real is 
rational,— das Vernunftige ist wirklich und das WirJcliche ver- 
nunftig,” And writers of less metaphysical rigor frequently 
avow the axiom, and always imply it. Thus in a remarkable 
article on Sir W. Hamilton, which appeared in the Prospective 
Review (understood to be by Mr. James Martineau), we read that 
Philosophy in England has dwindled down to mere Psychology 
and Logic, whereas its proper business is with the notions of 
Time, Space, Substance, Soul, God; “to pronounce upon the 
validity of these notions as revelations of real Existence, and, if 
they be reliable, use them as a bridge to cross the chasm from 
relative Thought to absolute Being. Once safe across, and 
gazing about it in that realm, the mind stands in presence of the 
objects of Ontology.” 

“ Once safe across this is indeed the step which constitutes 
the whole journey; unhappily we have no means of getting safe 
across; and in this helplessness we had better hold ourselves 
aloof from the attempt. If a man were to discourse with ampli¬ 
tude of detail and eloquence of conviction respecting the inhabit¬ 
ants of Sirius, setting forth in explicit terms what they were 
like, what embryonic forms they passed through, what had been 
the course of their social evolution and what would be its ulti¬ 
mate stage, we should first ask, And pray, Sir, what evidence 
have you for these particulars ? what guarantee do you offer for 
the validity of these conclusions? If he replied that Intuitional 
Reason assured him these things must be so from the inherent 
necessities of the case, he having logically evolved these conclu- 


INTRODUCTION. 


XXIX 


fcions from the data of Reason; we should suppose him to be 
either attempting to mystify us, or to be hopelessly insane. Nor 
would this painful impression be removed by his proceeding to 
affirm that he never thought of trusting to such fallacious argu- 
ments as could be furnished by observation and experiment— 
tests wholly inapplicable to objects so remote from all experience, 
objects accessible only by Reason. 

In the present day, speculations on Metaphysics are not, in¬ 
trinsically, more rational than speculations on the development 
of animated beings peopling Sirius; nay, however masked by 
the ambiguities of language and old familiarities of speculation, 
which seem to justify Metaphysics, the attempt of the Philoso¬ 
pher is really less rational, the objects being even less accessible. 
Psychology has taught us one lesson at least, namely, that we 
cannot know causes and essences, because our experience is lim¬ 
ited to sequences and phenomena. Nothing is gained by 
despising Experience, and seeking refuge in Intuition. The 
senses may be imperfect channels, but at any rate they are in 
direct communication with their objects, and are true up to a cer¬ 
tain point. The error arising from one sense may be corrected 
by another ; what to the eye appears round, the hand feels to be 
square. But Intuition has no such safeguard. It has only itself 
to correct its own errors. Holding itself aloof from the corrobo¬ 
rations of Sense, it is aloof from all possible verification, because 
it cannot employ the test of confrontation with fact. 

This conviction has been growing slowly. It could never 
have obtained general acceptance until Philosophy had proved 
its incapacity by centuries of failure. In the course of our His¬ 
tory we shall see the question of Certitude continually forced 
upon philosophers, always producing a crisis in speculation, 
although always again eluded by the more eager and impatient 
intellects. Finally, these repeated crises disengage the majority 
of minds from so hopeless a pursuit, and set them free to follow 
Science which has Certitude. If our History has any value, it is 
in the emphatic sanction it thus gives to the growing neglect of 
Philosophy, the growing preference for Science. In the former 
edition I adopted the common view which regards the distinc¬ 
tion between Philosophy and Science as lying in the pursuit of 


XXX 


INTRODUCTION. 


different objects. “ Philosophy aspires to the knowledge o' 
essences and causes. Positive Science aspires only to the knowl¬ 
edge of Laws. The one pretends to discover what things are , 
in themselves, apart from their appearances to sense ; and whence 
they came. The other only wishes to discover their modus ope- 
randi , observing the constant co-existences and successions of 
phenomena among themselves, and generalizing them into some 
one Law.” But this I no longer regard as the whole truth. It 
does not discriminate between scientific and metaphysical specu¬ 
lation on subjects within the scope of Science; such for instance 
as the phenomena of life, or such as table-turning. The vit.U and 
fundamental difference between the two orders of speculation 
does not lie in their objects, but in their methods. A priori , 
indeed, we might conclude that such a circumscription of the 
aims of speculation as is implied in Science would necessarily 
bring about a corresponding change in Method; in other words, 
that men having once relinquished the pursuit of essences and 
causes would have been forced to adopt the Method of Verifica¬ 
tion, because that alone was competent to lead to certitude. But 
History tells a different tale. Men did not adopt the Method of 
Verification because they had previously relinquished all attempts 
to penetrate into causes ; but they relinquished all attempts to 
penetrate into causes because they found that the only Method 
which could lead to certainty was the Method of Verification, 
which was not applicable to causes. Hence a gradual elimina¬ 
tion followed the gradual rise of each particular science ; till at 
last, in the doctrine of Auguste Comte, all inquiry is limited to 
such objects as admit of verification, in one way or another. 

The Method of Verification, let us never forget, is the one 
grand characteristic distinguishing Science from Philosophy, 
modern inquiry from ancient inquiry. Of the ancients, Fonte- 
nelle felicitously says: “ Souvent de faibles convenances, de 
petites similitudes, des discours vagues et confus, passent cliez 
eux pour des preuves : aussi rien ne leur coute a prouver.” The 
proof is, with us, the great object of solicitude. We demand cer¬ 
tainty ; and as the course of human evolution shows certainty to 
be attainable on no other Method than the one followed by Sci- 

V 

ence, the condemnation of Metaphysics is inevitable. 


INTRODUCTION. 


XXXI 


Grand, indeed, lias been tlie effort of Philosophy; great the 
part it has played in the drama of civilization; but the part is 
played out. It has left the legacy bequeathed by every great 
effort. It has enriched all succeeding ages, but its work is ac¬ 
complished. Men have grown less presumptuous in speculation, 
and inconceivably more daring m practice. They no longer 
attempt to penetrate the mystery of the universe, but they ex¬ 
plore the universe, and yoke all natural forces to their splendid 
chariot of Progress. The marvels of our age would have seemed 
more incredible to Plato, than were the Arabian Nights to Ben- 
tham ; but while Science thus enables us to realize a wonderland 
of fact, it teaches us to regard the unhesitating temerities of Plato 
and Plotinus as we regard the efforts of a child to grasp the moon. 

Philosophy was the great initiator of Science. It rescued the 
nobler part of man from the dominion of brutish apathy and 
helpless ignorance, nourished his mind with mighty impulses, 
exercised it in magnificent efforts, gave him the unslaked, un- 
slakable thirst for knowledge which has dignified his life, and 
enabled him to multiply tenfold his existence and his happiness. 
Having done this, its part is played. Our interest in it now is 
purely historical. 

The purport of this history is to show how and why the inte-' 
rest in Philosophy has become purely historical. In this purport 
lies the principal novelty of the work. There is no other His¬ 
tory of Philosophy written by one disbelieving in the possibility 
of metaphysical certitude. 


§ II. Limits of the Work. 

Having explained what is the final purpose of this History, 
and makes it subservient to the general History of Humanity 
rather than to any philosophical system, I will now briefly indi¬ 
cate the reasons which, apart from the limitations of my own 
knowledge, have determined the selection of the illustrative 
types. Brucker, having no purpose beyond that of accumulating 
materials, includes in his History the speculations of Antedilu¬ 
vian, Scythian, Persian, and Egyptian thinkers. Mr. Maurice, 
who has a purpose, also includes Hebrew, Egyptian, Hindoo, 


XXAll 


INTRODUCTION. 


Chinese, and Persian philosophies.'" Other historians vary in 
their limits, upon not very intelligible grounds. I begin with 
Greece, because in the history of Grecian thought all the epochs 
of speculative development are distinctly traceable; and as I write 
the Biography of Philosophy, it is enough for my purpose if any¬ 
where I can find a distinct filiation of ideas. Pome never had a 
philosophy of its own; it added no new idea to the ideas bor¬ 
rowed from Greece. It occupies no place therefore in the 
development of Philosophy, and is omitted from this Biog¬ 
raphy. 

The omission of the East, so commonly believed to have exer¬ 
cised extensive and profound influence on Greece, will to many 
readers seem less excusable. But to uufold the arguments which 
justify the omission here, would require more space than can be 
spared in this Introduction. It is questionable whether the East 
had any Philosophy distinct from its Religion; and still more 
questionable whether Greece borrowed its philosophical ideas.f 
True it is that the Greeks themselves supposed their early teach¬ 
ers to have drunk at the Eastern fount. True it is that modern 
orientalists, on first becoming acquainted with the doctrines of 
the Eastern sages, recognized strong resemblances to the doc¬ 
trines of the Greeks; and a RothJ finds Aristotle to be the first 
independent thinker, all his predecessors having drawn their 
speculations from the Egyptian; while a Gladisch§ makes it 
quite obvious (to himself) that the Pythagorean system is nothing 
but an adoption of the Chinese, the Heraclitic system an adop¬ 
tion of the Persian, the Eleatic of the Indian, the Empedoclean 
ot the Egyptian, the Anaxagoreau of the Jewish. But neither 
the vague tradition of the Greeks, nor the fallacious ingenuity of 
moderns, weigh heavy in the scale of historical criticism. It is 
true that coincidences of thought are to be found between 
Grecian and many other systems; but coincidences are no evi- 


* Moral and Metaphysical Philosophy , part i., second edition, 1850: a 
work ot singular fascination and great ingenuity. 

t 1 have elsewhere stated reasons for this belief.— Edinburgh Reviexo , April, 
1847, p. 852 sq. 

X Geschichte unserer abendldndischen Philosophic , i. p. 228 sq. 

§ Pie Religion und die Philosophic in ihrer weltgesch. Entwickclung. 




INTRODUCTION. 


XXXIII 


deuce of direct filiation ; and lie lias studied the history of spec¬ 
ulation to little purpose who is not thoroughly familiar with the 
natural tendency of the mind to sweep into the same tracks, 
where others have been before, where others will find themselves 
afterwards. Moreover, many of these coincidences, upon which 
historical theories are based, turn out, on close inspection, to be 
merely verbal, or at the best, approximative. Thus the physical 
speculations of the Greeks often coincide in expression with those 
of modern science. Does this prove that the moderns borrowed 
their science from the ancients ? M. Dutens thought so, and has 
written an erudite but singularly erroneous book to prove it. 
Democritus asserted the Milky Way to be only a cluster of stars; 
but the assertion was a mere guess, wholly without proof, and 
gained no acceptance. It was Galileo who discovered what De¬ 
mocritus guessed. Thus also Empedocles, Pythagoras, and Plato, 
are said to have been perfectly acquainted with the doctrine of 
gravitation; and this absurdity is made delusive by dint of 
forced translations, which elicit something like coincidence of 
expression, although every competent person detects the want of 
coincidence in the ideas.* 

Waiving all discussion of disputable and disputed points, it is 
enough that in Greece from the time of Thales, and in Europe 
from the time of Descartes, a regular development of Philosophy 
is traceable, quite sufficient for our purpose, which is less that of 
narrating the lives and expounding the opinions of various think¬ 
ers, than of showing how the course of speculation necessarily 
brought about that radical change in Method which distinguishes 
Philosophy from Science. In pursuance of such an aim it was 
perfectly needless to include any detailed narrative of the specu¬ 
lations which, under the name of Scholasticism, occupied the 
philosophical activity of the Middle Ages. Those speculations 
were either subordinate to Theology, or were only instrumental 
in perfecting philosophical language; and in this latter respect 
the historian of Philosophy is no more called upon to notice 
them, than a writer on the art of War would be called upon to 

* Karsten expresses the distinction well: “ Empedocles poetice adumbravit 
idem quod totseculis postea mat/iemuticis rationibus demonstratum est a New- 
tono.”— Philos. Grcecorum Ojoerum Peliquice, p. xii. 

3 





XXXIV 


INTRODUCTION 


give a history of the armorers of Milan or the sword-manufac¬ 
turers of Toledo. 

The same principle which determines the selection of Epochs 
also determines the selection of the points of doctrine to be ex¬ 
pounded. It is obvious that in nothing like the space to which 
this work is limited could even the barest outline ot all the opin¬ 
ions held by all the philosophers be crowded ; nor would ten 
times the space suffice for an exposition of those opinions with 
any thing like requisite detail. Brucker’s vast compilation, and 
Ritter’s laborious volumes, are open for any student desirous of 
more detailed knowledge; but even they are imperfect. My 
purpose is different; I write the Biography, not the Annals o^ 
Philosophy, and I am more concerned about the doctrines 
peculiar to each thinker than about those held by him in com- 
( mon with others. If I can ascertain and make intelligible the 
doctrines which formed the additions of each thinker to the pre¬ 
vious stock, and which helped the evolution of certain germs of 
philosophy, collateral opinions will need only such mention as is 
necessary to make the whole ^course of speculation intelligible. 
Thus limited in scope, I may find myself more at ease in the dis¬ 
cussion of those points on which attention should be fastened. 
More space can be given to fundamental topics. In restricting 
myself to Descartes, Spinoza, and Kant, without noticing Carte¬ 
sians, Spinozists, and Kantians, I also on the same principle re¬ 
strict myself to what is in each thinker peculiar to him, and 
directly allied to the course of philosophical development. The 
student who needs the Pandects of Philosophy will have to look 
elsewhere : this work only pretends to be a Summary. 


A BIOGRAPHICAL 


HISTORY OF PHILOSOPHY. 


PART I. 

ANCIENT PHILOSOPHY. 





FIRST EPOCH. 


SPECULATIONS ON THE NATURE OF THE UNIVERSE 


CHAPTER I. 

THE PHYSICISTS. 

§ I. Thales. 

Although the events of his life, no less than the precise doc¬ 
trines of his philosophy, are shrouded in mystery, and belong to 
the domain of fable, nevertheless Thales is very justly considered 
as the father of Greek Speculation. He made an epoch. He 
laid the foundation-stone of Greek philosophy. The step he took 
was small, but it was decisive. Accordingly, although nothing 
but a few of his tenets remain, and those tenets fragmentary and 
incoherent, we know enough of the general tendency of his doc¬ 
trines to speak of him with some degree of certitude. 

Thales was born at Miletus, a Greek colony in Asia Minor. 
The date of his birth is extremely doubtful; but the first year of 
the 36th Olympiad (b. c. 636) is generally accepted as correct. 
He belonged to one of the most illustrious families of Phoenicia, 
and took a conspicuous part in all the political affairs of his 
country,—a part which earned for him the highest esteem of his 
fellow-citizens. His immense activity in politics has been denied 
by later writers, as inconsistent with the tradition, countenanced 
by Plato, of his having spent a life of solitude and meditation; 
while on the other hand his affection for solitude has been ques¬ 
tioned on the ground of his political activity. It seems to us 
that the two things are perfectly compatible. Meditation does 



9 


THE PHYSICISTS. 


not necessarily unfit a man for action; nor does an active life 
absorb all bis time, leaving him none for meditation. The wise 
man will strengthen himself by meditation before he acts; and 
he will act, to test the truth of his opinions. 

Miletus was one of the most flourishing Greek colonies; and 
at the period we are now speaking of, before either a Persian or a 
Lydian yoke had crushed the energies of its population, it was a 
fine scene for the development of mental energies. Its commerce 
both by sea and land was immense. Its political constitution 
afforded the finest opportunities for individual development. 
Thales both by birth and education would naturally be fixed 
there, and would not travel into Egypt and Crete for the prose¬ 
cution of his studies, as some maintain, although upon no suffi¬ 
cient authority. The only ground for the conjecture is the fact 
of Thales being a proficient in mathematical knowledge; and 
from very early times, as we see in Herodotus, it was the fashion 
to derive the origin of almost every branch of knowledge from 
Egypt. So little consistency is there however in this narrative 
of his voyages, that he is said to have astonished the Egyptians 
by showing them how to measure the height of their pyramids 
by their shadows. A nation so easily astonished by one of the 
simplest of mathematical problems could have had little to teach. 
Perhaps the strongest proof that he never travelled into Egypt— 
or that, if he travelled there, he never came into communication 
with the priests—is the absence of all trace, however slight, of 
any Egyptian doctrine in the philosophy of Thales which he 
might not have found equally well at home. 

The distinctive characteristic of the Ionian School, in its first 
period, was its inquiry into the constitution of the universe. 
Thales opened this inquiry. It is commonly said: M Thales 
taught that the principle of all things was water.” On a first 
glance, this will perhaps appear a mere extravagance. A smile 
of pity may greet it, accompanied by a reflection on the smiler's 
part, of the unlikelihood of his ever believing such an absurdity. 
But the serious student will be slow to accuse his predecessors of 


THALES. 


3 


sheer and transparent absurdity. The history of Philosophy 
may be the history of errors; it is not a history of follies. All 
the systems which have gained acceptance have had a pregnant 
meaning, or they would not have been accepted. The meaning 
was proportionate to the opinions of the epoch, and as such 
is worth penetrating. Thales was one of the most extraordinary 
men that ever lived, and produced an extraordinary revolution. 
Such a man was not likely to have enunciated a philosophical 
thought which any child might have refuted. There was deep 
meaning in the thought, to him at least. Above all, there was deep 
meaning in the attempt to discover the origin of things. Let us 
endeavor to penetrate the meaning of his thought; let us see if 
we cannot in some shape trace its rise and growth in his mind. 

It is characteristic of philosophical minds to reduce all im¬ 
aginable diversities to one principle. As it is the inevitable 
tendency of religious speculation to reduce polytheism to mon¬ 
otheism,—to generalize all the supernatural powers into one 
expression,—so also was it the tendency of early philosophical 
speculation to reduce all possible modes of existence into one 
generalization of Existence itself. 

Thales, speculating on the constitution of the universe, could 
not but strive to discover the one principle—the primary Fact— 
the substance , of which all special existences were but the modes. 
Seeing around him constant transformations—birth and death, 
change of shape, of size, and of mode of existence—he could not 
regard any one of these variable states of existence as Existence 
itself. He therefore asked himself, What is that invariable Ex¬ 
istence of which these are the variable states? In a word, What 
is the beginning of things ? 

To ask this question was to open the era of philosophical 
inquiry. Hitherto men had contented themselves with accepting 
(he world as they found it; with believing what they saw; and 
with adoring what they could not see. 

Thales felt that there was a vital question to be answered 
relative to the beginning of things. He looked around him, and 




THE PHYSICISTS. 


the result of lus meditation was the conviction that Moisture was 
the Beo'inninaf. 

He was impressed with this idea by examining the constitution 
of the earth. There also he found moisture everywhere. All 
things he found nourished by moisture; warmth itself he 
declared to proceed from mcisture; the seeds of all things are 
moist. Water when condensed becomes earth. Thus convinced 
of the universal presence of water, he declared it to be the 
beginning of things. 

Thales would all the more readily adopt this notion from 
its harmonizing with ancient opinions; such for instance as 
those expressed in Hesiod’s Theogony, wherein Oceanus and 
Thetis are regarded as the parents of all such deities as had any 
relation to Nature. “He would thus have performed for the 
popular religion that which modern science has performed for 
the Book of Genesis: explaining what was before enigmatical.”* 

It is this which gives Thales his position in Philosophy. 
Aristotle calls him 6 roiujryg dp^^cg <pjXofl'o<piag, the man 
who made the first attempt to establBti a physical Beginning, 
without the assistance of myths. He has consequently been 
accused of Atheism by modern writers; but Atheism is the 
growth of a much later thought, and one under no pretence to 
be attributed to Thales, except on the negative evidence of 
Aristotle’s silence, which we conceive to be directly counter 
to the supposition, since it is difficult to believe Aristotle 
would have been silent had he thought Thales believed or disbe¬ 
lieved in the existence of any thing deeper than Water, and prior 
to it. Water was the dpyji, the beginning of all. When Cicero, 
following and followed by writers far removed from the times of 
Thales,f says that he “held water to be the beginning of things, 
but that God was the mind which created things out of the 
water,” he does violence to the chronology of speculation. We 

* Benj. Constant, Du, Polytheisme Domain, i'. 167. 

t And uncritically followed by many moderns who feel a difficulty ir 
placing themselves at tne point of view of ancient speculation. 



ANAXIMENES. 


5 


agree with Hegel that Thales could have had no conception ol 
God as Intelligence, since that is the conception of a more 
advanced philosophy. We doubt whether we had any concep¬ 
tion of a Formative Intelligence or of a Creative Power. Aris¬ 
totle* very explicitly denies that the old Physicists made any 
distinction between Matter (p uAt} xod to vtfoxelgsvov) and the 
Moving Principle or Efficient Cause (tj dp^V x\vyjrfsug ); and he 
further adds that Anaxagoras was the first who arrived at a con¬ 
ception of a Formative Intelligence.! Thales believed in the Gods 
and in the generation of the Gods: they, as all other things, had 
their origin in water. This is not Atheism, whatever else it may be. 
If it be true that he held all things to be living, and the world to 
be full of demons or Gods, there is nothing inconsistent in this 
with his views about Moisture as the origin, the starting-point, 
the primary existence. 

It is needless however to discuss what were the particular 
opinions of a thinker whose opinions have only reached us in 
fragments of uncritical tradition; all we certainly know is that 
the step taken by Thales was twofold in its influencefirst, to 
discover the Beginning, the prima materia of ail things (73 dp^rj); 
secondly, to select from among the elements that element which 
was most potent and omnipresent. To those acquainted with 
the history of the human mind, both these notions will be sig¬ 
nificant of an entirely new era. 

§ II. Anaximenes. 

Anaximander is by most historians placed after Thales. We 
agree with Ritter in giving that place to Anaximenes. The 
reasons on which we ground this arrangement are, first, that in 
so doing we follow our safest guide, Aristotle; secondly, that the 
doctrines of Anaximenes are the development of those of Thales; 
whereas Anaximander follows a totally different line of specula¬ 
tion. Indeed, the whole ordinary arrangement of the Ionian 


* Arist. Metaph. i. 3. 

t It will presently be seen that Diogenes was the first to conceive this. 



6 


THE PHYSICISTS. 


School seems to have proceeded on the conviction that each dis- 
ciple not only contradicted his master, but also returned to the 
doctrines of his master’s teacher. Thus Anaximander is made to 
succeed Thales, though quite opposed to him; whereas Anax¬ 
imenes, who only carries out the principles of Thales, is made the 
disciple of Anaximander. When WT3 state that 212 years, i. e. 
six or seven generations, are taken up by the lives of the four 
individuals said to stand in the successive relations of teacher and 
pupil, Thales, Anaximander, Anaximenes, and Anaxagoras, the 
reader will be able to estimate the value of the traditional rela¬ 
tionship. 

The truth is, only the names of the great leaders in philosophy 
* were thought worth preserving; all those who merely applied or 
extended the doctrine were very properly consigned to oblivion. 
This is also the principle upon w r hich the present history is com¬ 
posed. No one will therefore demur to our placing Anaximenes 
second to Thales: not as his disciple, but as his historical suc¬ 
cessor ; as the man who, taking up the speculation where Thales 
and his disciples left it, transmitted it to his successors in a more 
developed form. 

Of the life of Anaximenes nothing further is known than that 
he was born at Miletus, probably in the 63d Olympiad (n. c. 529), 
others say in the 58th Olympiad (b. c. 548), but there is no pos¬ 
sibility of accurately fixing the date. He is said to have discov¬ 
ered the obliquity of the Ecliptic by means of the gnomon. 

Pursuing the method of Thales, he could not satisfy himself 
of the truth of his doctrine. Water was not to him the most 
significant element. He felt within him a something which 
moved him he knew not how, he knew not why; something 
higher than himself; invisible, but ever-present: this he called 
his life. His life he believed to be air. Was there not also 
without him, no less than within him, an ever-moving, ever¬ 
present, invisible air ? The air which was within him, and which 
he called Life, was it not a part of the air which was without 
him ? and, if so, was not this air the Beginning of things ? 


DIOGENES OF APOLLONIA. 


7 


He looked around him and thought his conjecture was con¬ 
firmed. The air seemed universal.* The earth was as a broad 
leaf resting upon it. All things were produced from it; all things 
were resolved into it. When he breathed, he drew in a part of 
the universal life. All things were nourished by air, as he was 
nourished by it. 

To Anaximenes, as to most of the ancients, Air breathed and 
expired seemed the very stream of life, holding together all the 
heterogeneous substances of which the body was composed, giving 
them not only unity, but force, vitality. The belief in a living 
world—that is to say, of the universe as an organism—was very 
ancient, and Anaximenes, generalizing from the phenomena of 
individual life to universal life, made both dependent on Air. In 
many respects this was an advance on the doctrine of Thales, 
and the reader may amuse himself by finding its coincidence with 
some speculations of modern science. A grave chemist like 
Dumas can say, “ Les Plantes et les Animaux derivent de Fair, 
ne sont que de Fair condense, ils viennent de Fair et y retournent 
and Liebig, in a well-known passage of the Chemical Letters , elo¬ 
quently expresses the same idea. 

§ III. Diogenes of Apollonia. 

Diogenes of Apollonia is the proper successor to Anaximenes, 
although, from the uncritical arrangement usually adopted, he is 
made to represent no epoch whatever. Thus, Tennemann places 
him after Pythagoras. Hegel, by a strange oversight, says that 
we know nothing of Diogenes but the name. 

Diogenes was born at Apollonia, in Crete. More than this 
we are unable to state with certainty; but as he is said to have 
been a contemporary of Anaxagoras, we may assume him to have 
flourished about the 80th Olympiad (b. c. 460). His work On 

* When Anaximenes speaks of Air, as when Thales speaks of Water, we 
must not understand these elements as they appear in this or that deter¬ 
minate form on earth, but as Water and Air pregnant with vital energy and 
capable of infinite transmutations. 



8 


THE PHYSICISTS. 


Nature was extant in the time of Simplicius (the sixth century 
of our era), who extracted some passages from it. 

Diogenes adopted the tenet of Anaximenes respecting Air as 
the origin of things; but he gave a wider and deeper significa¬ 
tion to the tenet by attaching himself more to its analogy with 
the Soul.* Struck with the force of this analogy, he was led to 
push the conclusion to its ultimate limits. What is it, he may 
have asked himself, which constitutes Air the origin of things ? 
Clearly its vital force. The air is a Soul; therefore it is living 
and intelligent . But this Force or Intelligence is a higher thing 
than the Air, through which it manifests itself; it must conse¬ 
quently be prior in point of time; it must be the apxh pBD°so- 
pliers have sought. The Universe is a living being, spontaneously 
evolving itself, deriving its transformation from its own vitality. 

There are two remarkable points in this conception, both in¬ 
dicative of very great progress in speculation. The first is the 
attribute of Intelligence, with which the ap^rj is endowed. Anax. 
imenes considered the primary substance to be an animated 
substance. Air was Life, in his system, but the Life did not 
necessarily imply Intelligence. Diogenes saw that Life was not 
only Force, but Intelligence; the air which stirred within him 
not only prompted , but instructed. The Air, as the origin of all 
things, is necessarily an eternal, imperishable substance; but as 
soul, it is also necessarily endowed with consciousness. “ It knows 
much,” and this knowledge is another proof of its being the pri¬ 
mary substance; “for without Beason,” he says, “it would be 
impossible for all to be arranged duly and proportionately; and 
whatever object we consider will be found to be arranged and 
ordered in the best and most beautiful manner.” Order can re¬ 
sult only from Intelligence; the Soul is therefore the first ()• 
This conception was undoubtedly a great one; but that the 


* By Soul (ipvx>/) we must understand Life in its most general meaning, 
ratlier than Mind in the modern sense. Thus the treatise of Aristotle nepl 
^vxrjs is a treatise on the Vital Principle, including Mind, not a treatise on 
Psychology. 



DIOGENES OF APOLLONIA. 


9 


reader may not exaggerate its importance, nor suppose that the 
rest of Diogenes’ doctrines were equally reasonable and profound, 
we must for the sake of preserving historical truth advert to one 
or two of his applications of the conception. Thus : 

The world, as a living unity, must like other individuals derive 
its vital force from the Whole: hence he attributed to the world 
a set of respiratory organs, which he fancied he discovered in the 
stars. All creation and all material action were but respiration 
and exhalation. In the attraction of moisture to the sun, in the 
attraction of iron to the magnet, he equally saw a 'process of res¬ 
piration. Man is superior to brutes in intelligence because he 
inhales a purer air than brutes who bow their heads to the 
ground. 

These naive attempts at the explanation of phenomena will 
suffice to show that although Diogenes had made a large stride, 
he had accomplished very little of the journey. 

The second remarkable point indicated by his system is the 
manner in which it closes the inquiry opened by Thales. Thales, 
starting from the conviction that one of the four elements was 
the origin of the world, and Water that element, was followed 
by Anaximenes, who thought that not only was Air a more uni¬ 
versal element than Water, but that, being life, it must be the 
universal Life. To him succeeded Diogenes, who saw that not 
only was Air Life, but Intelligence, and that Intelligence must 
have been the First of Things. 

We concur therefore with Ritter in regarding Diogenes as the 
last philosopher attached to the Physical method; and that in 
his system the method receives its consummation. Having thus 
traced one great line of speculation, we must now cast our eyes 
upon what was being contemporaneously evolved in another di* 
rection. 


CHAPTER II. 


THE MATHEMATICIANS. 

§ I. Anaximander of Miletus. 

tl As we now, for tlie first time in tlie history of Greek Philos¬ 
ophy, meet with contemporaneous developments, the observa¬ 
tion will not perhaps be deemed superfluous that in the earliest 
times of philosophy, historical evidences of the reciprocal influ¬ 
ence of the two lines either entirely fail or are very unworthy of 
credit; on the other hand, the internal evidence is of very limit¬ 
ed value, because it is impossible to prove a complete ignorance 
in one, of the ideas evolved and carried out in the other; while 
any argument drawn from an apparent acquaintance therewith 
is far from being extensive or tenable, since all the olden philos¬ 
ophers drew from one common source—the national habit of 
thought. When indeed these two directions had been more 
largely pursued, we shall find in the controversial notices suffi¬ 
cient evidence of an active conflict between these very opposite 
views of nature and the universe. In truth, when we call to 
mind the inadequate means at the command of the earlier philos¬ 
ophers for the dissemination of their opinions, it appears ex¬ 
tremely probable that their respective systems were for a long 
time known only within a very narrow circle. On the supposi¬ 
tion, however, that the philosophical impulse of these times was 
the result of a real national want, it becomes at once probable 
that the various elements began to show themselves in Ionia 
nearly at the same time, independently and without any external 
connection.”* 


* Eitter, i. 265. 



ANAXIMANDER OF MILETUS. 


11 


The chief of the school we are now about to consider was 
Anaximander of Miletus, whose birth may be dated in the 42d 
Olympiad (b. c. 610). He is sometimes called the friend and 
sometimes the disciple of Thales. We prefer the former rela- 
tion; the latter is at any rate not the one in which this history 
can regard him. His reputation, both for political and scien¬ 
tific knowledge, was very great; and many important inven¬ 
tions are ascribed to him, amongst others that of the sun-dial 
and the sketch of a geographical map. His calculations of the 
size and distance of the heavenly bodies were committed to wri¬ 
ting in a small work, which is said to be the earliest of all philo¬ 
sophical writings. He was passionately addicted to mathema¬ 
tics, and framed a series of geometrical problems. He was the 
leader of a colony to Apollonia; and he is also reported to 
have resided at the court of the tvrant Polvcrates, in Samos, 
where also lived Pythagoras and Anacreon. 

No two historians are agreed in their interpretation of Anaxi¬ 
mander’s doctrines; few indeed are agreed as to the historical 
position he is to occupy. 

Anaximander is stated to have been the first to use the term 
cip%7} for the Beginning of things. What he meant by this 
term principle is variously interpreted by the ancient writers; 
for, although they are unanimous in stating that he called it the 
infinite (<ro airsipov), what he understood by the infinite is yet 
undecided.* 

On a first view, nothing can well be less intelligible than this 
tenet: “ The Infinite is the origin of all things.” It either looks 
like the monotheism of a far later date,f or like the word-jug¬ 
glery of mysticism. To our minds it is neither more nor less 

* Ritter, i. 267. 

t Which it certainly could not have been. To prevent any misconcep¬ 
tion of the kind, we may merely observe that the Infinite here meant, was 
not even the Limitless Power, much less the Limitless Mind, implied in the 
modern conception. In Anaxagoras, who lived a century later, we find to 
anstfov to be no more than vastness.—See Simplicius, Phys. 33, b, quoted in 
Ritter. 



12 


THE MATHEMATICIANS. 


difficult of comprehension than the tenet of Thales, that “ Water 
is the origin of all things.” Let us cast ourselves back in imagi¬ 
nation into those early days, and see if we cannot account for the 
rise of such an opinion. 

On viewing Anaximander side by side with his great prede¬ 
cessor and friend, Thales, we cannot but be struck with the ex¬ 
clusively abstract tendency of his speculations. Instead of the 
meditative Metaphysician, we see a Geometrician. Thales, whose 
famous maxim, “ Know thyself,” was essentially concrete, may 
serve as a contrast to Anaximander, whose axiom, “ The Infinite 
is the origin of all things,” is the ultimate effort of abstraction. 
Let us concede to him this tendency; let us see in him the geo¬ 
metrician rather than the moralist or physicist; let us endeavor 
to understand how all things presented themselves to his mind 
in the abstract form, and how mathematics was the science of 
sciences, and we shall then perhaps be able to understand his 
tenets. 

Thales, in searching for the origin of things, was led, as we 
have seen, to maintain water to be that origin. But Anaxi¬ 
mander, accustomed to view things in the abstract, could not 
accept so concrete a thing as Water: something more ultimate 
in the analysis was required. Water itself, which in common 
with Thales, he held to be the material of the universe, was it 
not subject to conditions ? What were those conditions? This 
Moisture, of which all things are made, does it not cease to be 
moisture in many instances? And can that which is the origin 
of all, ever change, ever be confounded with individual things? 
Water itself is a thing; but a Thing cannot be All Things. 

These objections to the doctrine of Thales caused him to re¬ 
ject, or rather to modify, that doctrine. The ap^v, he said, was 
not Water; it must be the Unlimited All, <ro urfsipov. 

Vague and profitless enough this theory will doubtless appear. 
The abstraction “All” will seem a mere distinction in words. 
But in Greek Philosophy, as we shall repeatedly notice, distinc¬ 
tions in ivords were generally equivalent to distinctions in things. 


ANAXIMANDER OF MILETUS. 


13 


And if the reader reflects how the mathematician, by the very 
nature of his science, is led to regard abstractions as entities,— 
to separate form, and treat of it as if it alone constituted body ,— 
there will be no difficulty in conceiving Anaximander’s distinc¬ 
tion between all Finite Things and the Infinite All. 

It is thus only we can explain his tenet; and this explanation 
seems borne out by the testimony of Aristotle and Theophrastus, 
who agree, that by the Infinite he understood the multitude of 
elementary parts out of which individual things issued by sepa¬ 
ration. “By separation the phrase is significant. It means 
the passage from the abstract to the concrete,—the All realizing 
itself in the Individual Thing. Call the Infinite by the name of 
Existence, and say, “ There is existence per se ,• and Existence per 
aliud; the former is Existence, the ever-living fountain whence 
flow the various existing Things .” In this way we may, perhaps, 
make Anaximander’s meaning intelligible. 

Let us now hear Fitter. Anaximander “ is represented as ar¬ 
guing that the primary substance must have been infinite to be 
all-sufficient for the limitless variety of produced things with 
which we are encompassed. Now, although Aristotle especially 
characterizes this infinite as a mixture, we must not think of it 
as a mere multiplicity of primary material elements; for to the 
mind of Anaximander it w r as a Unity immortal and imperishable 
—an ever-producing energy. This production of individual 
things he derived from an eternal motion of the Infinite .” 

The primary Being, according to Anaximander, is unquestion¬ 
ably a Unity. It is One yet All. It comprises within itself the 
multiplicity of elements from which all mundane things are com¬ 
posed ; and these elements only need to be separated from it to 
appear as separate phenomena of nature. Creation is the de¬ 
composition of the Infinite. How does this decomposition origi¬ 
nate? 'By the eternal motion which is the condition of the 
Infinite. “ He regarded,” says Ritter, “ the Infinite as being in 
a constant state of incipieney, which, however, is nothing but 

a constant secretion and concretion of certain immutable ele- 
4 


14 


THE MATHEMATICIANS. 


ments; so that we might well say, the parts of the whole are 
constantly changing, while the whole is unchangeable.” 

The idea of elevating an abstraction into a Being—the origin 
of all things—is baseless enough; it is as if we were to say, 
“There are numbers 1, 2, 3, 20, 80, 100; but there is also 
Number in the abstract, of which these individual numbers are 
but the concrete realization: without Number there will be no 
numbers.” Yet so difficult is it for the human mind to divest 
itself of its own abstractions, and to consider them as no more 
than as abstractions, that this error lies at the root of the majority 
of philosophical systems. It may help the reader to some tole¬ 
rance of Anaximander’s error to learn that celebrated philoso¬ 
phers of modern times, Ilegel and others, have maintained pre¬ 
cisely the same tenet, though somewhat differently worded: 
they say, that Creation is God passing into activity, but not ex¬ 
hausted by the act; in other words, Creation is the mundane 
existence of God ; finite Things are but the eternal motion, the 
manifestation of the All. 

Anaximander separated himself from Thales by regarding the 
abstract as of higher significance than the concrete: and in this 
tendency we see the origin of the Pythagorean school, so often 
called the mathematical school. The speculations of Thales tend¬ 
ed towards discovering the material constitution of the universe; 
they were founded, in some degree, upon an induction from ob¬ 
served facts, however imperfect that induction might be. The 
speculations of Anaximander were wholly deductive; and, as 
such, tended towards mathematics, the science of pure deduction. 

As an example of this mathematical tendency we may allude 
to his physical speculations. The central point in his cosmo- 
poeia was the earth; for, being of a cylindrical form, with a base 
in the ratio 1 : 3 to its altitude, it was retained in its centre by 
the aid and by the equality of its distances from all the limits 
of the world. 

From the foregoing exposition the Reader may judge of the 
propriety of that ordinary historical arrangement which places 


PYTHAGORAS. 


15 


Anaximander as the successor of Thales. It is clear that tie 
originated one of the great lines of speculative inquiry, and that 
one, perhaps, the most curious in all antiquity. By Thales, 
Water, the origin of things, was held to be a real physical ele¬ 
ment, which in the hands of his successors became gradually 
transformed into a merely representative emblem of something 
wholly different (Life or Mind); and the element which lent its 
name as the representative was looked upon as a secondary 
phenomenon, derived from that primary force of which it was the 
emblem. Water was the real primary element with Thales; with 
Diogenes, Water (having previously been displaced for Air) was 
but the emblem of Mind. Anaximander’s conception of the All, 
though abstract, is nevertheless to a great degree physical: it is 
All Things. His conception of the Infinite was not ideal; it 
had not passed into the state of a symbol; it was the mere de¬ 
scription of the primary fact of existence. Above all, it involved 
no conception of intelligence except as a mundane finite thing. 
His ‘ro a^eipov was the Infinite Existence, but not the Infinite 
Mind. This later development we shall meet with hereafter in 
the Eleatics. 


§ II. Pythagoras. 

The life of Pythagoras is enshrouded in the dim magnificence 
of legends, from which the attempt to extricate is hopeless. Cer¬ 
tain general indications are doubtless to be trusted; but they are 
few and vague. 

As a specimen of the trouble necessary to settle any one point 
in this biography, we will here cite the various dates given by 
ancient authors and modern scholars as the results of their in¬ 
quiries into his birth. Diodorus Siculus says 61st Olympiad; 
Clemens Alex., 62d 01.; Eusebius, 63d or 64th 01.; Stanely, 
53d 01.; Gale, 60th Oh; Dacier, 47th Oh; Bentley, 43d Oh; 
Lloyd, 43d Oh; Dodwell, 52d Oh; Ritter, 49th Oh; Thirl- 
wall, 51st Oh: so that the accounts vary within the limits of 
eighty-four years. If we must make a choice, we should decide 


16 


THE MATHEMATICIANS. 


with Bentley; not only from respect for that magnificent scholar, 
but because it agrees with the probable date of the birth of one 
known to have been Pythagoras’s friend and contemporary, Anaxi¬ 
mander. 

Pythagoras is usually classed amongst the great founders of 
Mathematics; and this receives confirmation from what we know 
of the general scope of his labors, and from the statement that 
he was chiefly occupied with the determination of extension and 
gravity, and measuring the ratios of musical tones. His science 
and skill are of course absurdly exaggerated, as indeed is every 
portion of his life. Fable assigns him the place of a saint, a 
worker of miracles, and a teacher of more than human wisdom. 
His very birth was marvellous, some accounts making him the 
son of Hermes, others of Apollo: in proof of the latter, he is 
said to have exhibited a golden thigh. With a word he tamed 
the Daunian bear, which was laying waste the country; -with a 
whisper he restrained an ox from devouring beans. He was 
heard to lecture at different places, such as Metapontum and 
Taurominium, on the same day and at the same hour. As he 
crossed the river, the river-god saluted him with “ Hail, Pythag¬ 
oras !” and to him the harmony of the Spheres was audible 
music. 

• 

Fable enshrines these wonders. But that they could exist, 
even as legendary lore, is significant of the greatness of Pythag¬ 
oras. It is well said by Sir Lytton Bulwer that “ not only all 
the traditions respecting Pythagoras, but the certain fact of the 
mighty effect that in his single person he afterwards wrought in 
Italy, prove him also to have possessed that nameless art of mak¬ 
ing a personal impression upon mankind, and creating individual 
enthusiasm, which is necessary to those who obtain a moral 
command, and are the founders of sects and institutions. It is 
so much in conformity with the manners of the time and the 
objects of Pythagoras, to believe that he diligently explored the 
ancient religious and political systems of Greece, from which he 
had been long a stranger, that we cannot reject the traditions 


PYTHAGORAS. 


IT 


(however disfigured with fable) that he visited Delos, and affect¬ 
ed to receive instructions from the pious ministrants of Delphi.”* 
It is no ordinary man whom Fable exalts into its poetical region. 
Whenever you find romantic or miraculous deeds attributed, be 
certain that the hero was great enough to sustain the weight of 
this crowrn of fabulous glory. 

But the fact thus indicated is a refutation of the ordinary tra¬ 
dition of his having borrowed ail his learning and philosophy 
from the East. Could not so great a man dispense with foreign 
teachers 2 Assuredly he could, and did. But his countrymen, 
by a very natural process of thought, looked upon his greatness 
as the result of his Eastern education. No man is a prophet in 
his own country; and the imaginative Greeks were peculiarly 
prone to invest the distant and the foreign with strikiug attributes. 
They could not believe in wisdom springing up from amongst 
them; they turned to the East as to a vast and unknown region, 
whence all novelty, even of thought, must come. 

When w r e consider, as Ritter observes, how Egypt was pecu¬ 
liarly the wonder-land of the olden Greeks, and how, even in 
later times, when it was so much better known, it was still, as it 
is to this day, so calculated to excite awe by the singular char¬ 
acter of its people, which, reserved in itself, was always obtrud¬ 
ing on the observer’s attention through the stupendous struc¬ 
tures of national architecture, we can easily imagine how the 
Greeks were led to establish some connection between this mighty 
East and their great Pythagoras. 

But, although we can by no means believe that Pythagoras 
was much indebted to Egypt for his doctrines, we are not skepti¬ 
cal as to the account of his having travelled there. Samos was in 
constant intercourse with Egypt. If Pythagoras had travelled 
into Egypt, or indeed listened to the relations of those who had 
done so, he would have thereby obtained as much knowledge of 
Egyptian customs as appears in his system; and that without 


* Athens, its Rise and Fall , ii. 412. 




18 


TIJE MATHEMATICIANS. 


having had the least instruction from the Priesthood. The doc¬ 
trine of metempsychosis was a public doctrine with the Egyp¬ 
tians; though, as Ritter says, he might not have been indebted 
to them even for that. Funeral customs and abstinence from 
particular kinds of food were things to be noticed by any traveller. 
But the fundamental objection to Pythagoras having been in¬ 
structed by the Egyptian Priests, is to be sought in the consti¬ 
tution of the priestly caste itself. If the priests were so jealous 
of instruction as not to bestow it even on the most favored ot 
their countrymen unless belonging to their caste, how unreason¬ 
able to suppose that they would bestow it on a stranger, and one 
of a different religion ! 

The ancient writers were sensible of this objection. To get 
rid of it they invented a story which we shall give as it is given 
by Brucker. Polycrates was in friendly relations with Amasis, 
King of Egypt, to whom he sent Pythagoras, with a recommen¬ 
dation to enable him to gain access to the Priests. The king’s 
authority was not sufficient to prevail on the Priests to admit a 
stranger to their mysteries: they referred Pythagoras therefore 
to Thebes, as of greater antiquity. The Theban Priests were 
awed by the royal mandate, but were loth to admit a stranger 
to their rites. To disgust the novice,, they forced him to undergo 
several severe ceremonies, amongst which was circumcision. But 
he could not be discouraged. He obeyed all their injunctions with 
such patience that they resolved to take him into their confi¬ 
dence. He spent two-and-twenty years in Egypt, and returned 
perfect master of all science. This is not a bad story : but there 
is one objection to it—it is not substantiated. 

To Pythagoras the invention of the word Philosopher is 
ascribed. When he was in Peloponnesus he was asked by Leon¬ 
tius, what was his art. “I have no art; I am a philosopher,” 
was the reply. Leontius never having heard the name before, 
asked what it meant. Pythagoras gravely answered, “This life 
may be compared to the Olympic games : for as in this assembly 
some seek glory and the crowns; some by the purchase or by 


PYTHAGORAS. 


10 


the sale of merchandise seek gain ; and others, more noble than 
either, go there neither for gain nor for applause, but solely to 
enjoy this wonderful spectacle, and to see and know all that 
passes. We, in the same manner, quit our country, which is 
Heaven, and come into the world, which is an assembly where 
many work for profit, many for gain, and where there are but 
few who, despising avarice and vanity, study nature. It is these 
last whom I call Philosophers; for as there is nothing more noble 
than to be a spectator without any personal interest, so in this 
life the contemplation and knowledge of nature are infinitely 
more honorable than any other application.” It is necessary to 
observe that the ordinary interpretation of Philosopher, as Py¬ 
thagoras meant it, a “ lover of wisdom,” is only accurate where the 
utmost extension is given to the word “ lover.” Wisdom must 
be the “ be-all and the end-all here” of the philosopher, and not 
simply a taste or a pursuit. It must be his mistress, to whom a 
life is devoted. This was the meaning of Pythagoras. The word 
which had before designated a wise man was But he 

wished to distinguish himself from the Soplioi , or philosophers 
of his day, by name, as he had done by system. What was the 
meaning of Sophos? Unquestionably what we mean by a wise 
man, as distinct from a philosopher; one whose wisdom is prac¬ 
tical, and turned to practical purposes; one who loves wisdom 
not for its own sake so much as for the sake of its uses. Now 
Pythagoras loved wisdom for its own sake. Contemplation was 
to him the highest exercise of humanity : to bring wisdom down 
to the base purposes of life was desecration. He called himself 
therefore a Philosopher—a Lover of Wisdom—to demarcate 
himself from those who sought Wisdom only as a power to be 
used for ulterior ends. 

This interpretation of the word Philosopher may explain some 
of his opinions. Above all, it explains the constitution of his 
Secret Society, into which no one was admitted except after a 
severe initiation. For five years the novice was condemned to 
silence. Many relinquished the task in despair; they were 


20 


THE MATHEMATICIANS. 


unworthy of the contemplation of pure wisdom. Others, in 
whom the tendency to loquacity was observed to be less, had the 
period commuted. Various humiliations had to be endured; 
various experiments were made of their powers of self-denial. 
By these Pythagoras judged whether they were worldly-minded, 
or whether they were fit to be admitted into the sanctuary of 
science. Having purged their souls of the baser particles by 
purifications, sacrifices, and initiations, they were admitted to the 
sanctuary, where the higher part of the soul was purged by the 
knowledge of truth, which consists in the knowledge of imma¬ 
terial and eternal things. For this purpose he commenced with 
Mathematics, because, as they just preserve the medium between 
corporeal and incorporeal things, they can alone draw off the 
mind from Sensible things and conduct them to Intelligibles. 

Shall we wonder, then, that he was venerated as a God ? Ho 
who could transcend all earthly struggles, and the great am¬ 
bitions of the greatest men, to live only for the sake of wisdom, 
was he not of a higher stamp than ordinary mortals ? Well 
might later historians picture him as clothed in robes of white, 
his head crowned with gold, his aspect grave, majestical, and 
calm; above the manifestation of any human joy, of any human 
sorrow ; enwrapt in contemplation of the deeper mysteries of ex¬ 
istence ; listening to music and the hymns of Homer, Hesoid, 
and Thales, or listening to the harmony of the spheres. And to 
a lively, talkative, quibbling, active, versatile people like the 
Greeks, what a grand phenomenon must this solemn, earnest, 
silent, meditative man have appeared ! 

From Sir Lytton Bulwer’s Athens we borrow the following 
account of the political career of Pythagoras :—“ Pythagoras 
arrived in Italy during the reign of Tarquinius Superbus, accord¬ 
ing to the testimony of Cicero and Aulus Gellius, and fixed his 
residence in Croton, a city in the bay of Tarentum, colonized by 
Greeks of the Achaean tribe. If we may lend a partial credit to 
the extravagant fables of later disciples, endeavoring to extract 
from florid super-addition some original germ of simple truth, it 


PYTHAGORAS. 


21 


would seem that lie first appeared in the character of a teacher 
of youth, and, as was not unusual in those times, soon rose from 
the preceptor to the legislator. Dissensions in the city favored 
his objects. The Senate (consisting of a thousand members, 
doubtless of a different race from the body of the people—the 
first the posterity of the settlers, the last the native population) 
availed itself of the arrival and influence of an eloquent and re¬ 
nowned philosopher. He lent himseif to the consolidation of 
aristocracies, and was equally inimical to democracy and tyranny. 
But his policy was that of no vulgar ambition. He refused, at 
least for a time, ostensible power and office, and was contented 
with instituting an organized and formidable society, not wholly 
dissimilar to that mighty Order founded by Loyola in times com¬ 
paratively recent. The disciples admitted into this society un¬ 
derwent examination and probation : it was through degrees that 
they passed into its higher honors, and were admitted into its 
deeper secrets. Religion made the basis of the fraternity, but 
religion connected with human ends of advancement and power. 
He selected the three hundred who at Croton formed his Order, 
from the noblest families, and they were professedly reared to 
know themselves, that so they might be fitted to command the 
world. It was not long before this society, of which Pythagoras 
was the head, appears to have supplanted the ancient Senate and 
obtained the legislative administration. In this Institution Py¬ 
thagoras stands alone ; no other founder of Greek philosophy re¬ 
sembles him. By all accounts he also differed from the other 
sages of his time in his estimation of the importance of women. 
He is said to have lectured to, and taught them. His wife was 
herself a philosopher, and fifteen disciples of the softer sex rank 
among the prominent ornaments of his school. An Order based 
upon so profound a knowledge of all that can fascinate or cheat 
mankind could not fail to secure a temporary power. His in¬ 
fluence was unbounded in Croton : it extended to other Italian 
tides; it amended or overturned political constitutions; and had 
Pythagoras possessed a more coarse and personal ambition, he 


2 2 


THE MATHEMATICIANS. 


might perhaps have founded a mighty dynasty, and enriched out 
social annals with the result of a new experiment. But his was 
the ambition not of a hero, but a sage. He wished rather to 
establish a system than to exalt himself. His immediate followers 
saw not all the consequences that might be derived from the 
fraternity he founded; and the political designs of his gorgeous 
and august philosophy, only for awhile successful, left behind 
them but the mummeries of an impotent freemasonry, and the 
enthusiastic ceremonies of half-witted ascetics. 

“ It was when this power, so mystic and so revolutionary, had, 
by the means of branch societies, established itself throughout a 
considerable portion of Italy, that a general feeling of alarm and 
suspicion broke out against the sage and his sectarians. The 
anti-Pythagorean risings, according to Porphyry, were suffi¬ 
ciently numerous and active to be remembered long generations 
afterwards. Many of the sage’s friends are said to have perished, 
and it is doubtful whether Pythagoras himself fell a victim to the 
rage of his enemies, or died a fugitive amongst his disciples at 
Metapontum. Nor was it until nearly the whole of Lower Italy 
was torn by convulsions, and Greece herself drawn into the con¬ 
test as pacificator and arbiter, that the ferment was allayed. The 
Pythagorean institutions were abolished, and the timocratic de¬ 
mocracies of the Acliseans rose upon the ruins of those intellectual 
but ungenial oligarchies. 

“ Pythagoras committed a fatal error when, iu his attempt to 
revolutionize society, he had recourse to aristocracies for his 
agents. Revolutions, especially those influenced by religion, can 
never be worked out but by popular emotions. It was from this 
error of judgment that he enlisted the people against him; for 
by the account of Neanthes, related by Porphyry, and indeed 
from all other testimony, it is clearly evident that to popular 
not party commotion his fall must be ascribed. It is no less 
clear that alter his death, while his philosophical sect remained, 
his political code crumbled away. The only seeds sown by 
philosophers which spring up into great States, are those 


PHILOSOPHY OF PYTHAGORAS. 


that, whether for good or evil, are planted in the hearts of the 
Many.” 

We cannot omit the story which so long amused the world, 
respecting his discovery of the musical chords. Hearing one day, 
in the shop of a blacksmith, a number of men striking successively 
a piece of heated iron, he remarked that all the hammers, except 
one, produced harmonious chords, viz. the octave, the fifth, and 
the third; but the sound between the fifth and the third was dis¬ 
cordant. On entering the workshop, he found the diversity of 
sounds was owing to the difference in the weight of the hammers. 
He took the exact weights, and on reaching home suspended four 
strings of equal dimensions, and hanging a weight at the end of 
each of the strings equal to the weight of each hammer, he struck 
the strings, and found the sounds correspond with those of the 
hammers. He then proceeded to the formation of a musical scale. 

On this, Hr. Burney, in his History of Music, remarks: “ Though 
both hammers and anvil have been swallowed by ancients and 
moderns with most ostrich-like digestion, yet upon examination and 
experiment it appears that hammers of different size and weight 
will no more produce different tones upon the same anvil, than 
bows or clappers of different size will from the same string or bell.” 

We close here our account of the life of Pythagoras, reminding 
the reader that one great reason for the fabulous and contradic¬ 
tory assertions collected together in histories and biographies 
arises from the uncritical manner in which the “ authorities” have 
been used. To take only one “authority” as an example: Iam- 
blicus wrote his Life of Pythagoras with a view of combating the 
rising doctrine of Christianity, and of opposing by implication a 
Pagan philosopher to Christ. The miracles that were attributed 
to Pythagoras have no better source than this. 

§ III. Philosophy of Pythagoras. 

There is no system in the whole course of our history more 
difficult to seize and represent accurately than that commonly 
known as the Pythagorean. It has made prodigious noise in the 


2i: 


THE MATHEMATICIANS. 


world; so much so as to he often confounded with its distant 
echoes. An air of mystery, always inviting to a large class, sur¬ 
rounds it. The marvellous relations concerning its illustrious 
founder, the supposed assimilation it contains of various elements 
of Eastern speculation, and the supposed symbolical nature of its 
doctrines, have all equally combined to render it attractive and 
contradictory. Every dogma in it has been traced to some prior 
philosophy. Not a vestige will remain to be called the property 
of the teacher himself, if we restore to the Jews, Indians, Egyp¬ 
tians, Chaldeans, Phoenicians, nay even Thracians, those various 
portions which he is declared to have borrowed from them. 

All this pretended plagiarism we incline to think extremely 
improbable: Pythagoras was a consequence of Anaximander; 
and his doctrines, in as far as we can gather from their leading 
tendency, were but a continuation of that abstract and deductive 
philosophy of which Anaximander was the originator. 

At the outset we must premise, that whatever interest there 
may be in following out the particular opinions recorded as be¬ 
longing to Pythagoras, such a process is quite incompatible with 
our plan. The greatest uncertainty still exists, and must for¬ 
ever exist amongst scholars, respecting the genuineness of those 
opinions. Even such as are recorded by trustworthy authorities 
are always vaguely attributed by them to “ the Pythagoreans,” 
not to Pythagoras. Modern criticism has clearly shown that the 
works attributed to Timaeus and Arcliytas are spurious; and that 
the supposed treatise of Ocellus Lucanus on the “ Nature of the 
All” cannot even have been written by a Pythagorean. Plato 
and Aristotle, the only ancient writers who are to be trusted in 
this matter, do not attribute any peculiar doctrines to Pythagoras. 
The reason is simple. Pythagoras taught in secret; and never 
wrote. What he taught his disciples it is impossible accuratelv 
to learn from what those disciples themselves taught. His influence 
over their minds was unquestionably immense; and this influence 
would communicate to his school a distinctive tendency , but not 
one accordant doctrine; for each scholar would carry out that 


PHILOSOPHY OF PYTHAGORAS. 


25 


tendency in the direction which best suited his tastes and 
powers.* 

The extreme difficulty of ascertaining accurately what Pythag¬ 
oras thought, or even what his disciples thought, will not em¬ 
barrass us if we can but ascertain the general tendency of their 
speculations, and, above all, the peculiarity of their method. 
For this difficulty—which, to the critical historian insuperable, 
only affects us indirectly—renders indeed our endeavor to seize 
the characteristic method and tendency more hazardous and 
more liable to contradiction; but it does not compel us to inter¬ 
rupt our march for the sake of storming every individual fortress 
of opinion we may encounter on our way. We have to trace 
out the map of the philosophical world; we must be careful to 
ascertain the great outlines of each country : this we may be 
enabled to do without absolutely being acquainted with the in¬ 
ternal varieties of that country, for geographers are not bound 
to be also geologists. 

What were the method and tendency of the Pythagorean 
school ? The method, purely deductive; the tendency, wholly 
towards the consideration of abstractions as the only true ma¬ 
terials of science. Hence the name not unfrequently given to 
that school, of “ the Mathematical.” The list of Pythagoreans 
embraces the greatest names in mathematics and astronomy,— 
x\rchytas and Philolaus, and subsequently Hipparchus and 
Ptolemy .\ 


* We assume this to be the case ; but we do not assume it groundlessly. 
We are guided by the striking analogy afforded by the celebrated Saint-Si¬ 
mon. Like Pythagoras, the Frenchman published no complete account of 
his system. He communicated it to his disciples ; and, as his influence over 
their minds was almost unparalleled, the tendency of his philosophy took 
deep root, though producing very different fruits in different minds. Those 
moderately acquainted with French writers will appreciate this when we 
simply enumerate MM. Augustin Thierry, Auguste Comte, Pierre Leroux, 
Michel Chevalier, Lc Pere Enfantin, and M. Bazard, all disciples of Saint- 
Simon. 

t JEschylus, a disciple of Pythagoras, makes his Titan boast of having 
discovered for men, Number, the highest of the sciences ; Kai \lj\v aptdfidv, 
c^o\ov (Tu^KTftduvv, i^etipov airoTj. —Prom ., 459. 



20 


THE MATHEMATICIANS. 


We may new perhaps, in some sort, comprehend what Pythag¬ 
oras meant when he taught that Numbers were the principles 
of Things: roug dpid/xoig airiovg sivui r^g oixflag* or, to translate 
more literally, “Numbers are the cause of the material existence 
of Things;” guVioc being here evidently the expression of concrete 
existence. This is confirmed by the wording of the formula 
given elsewhere by Aristotle, that Nature is realized from Num¬ 
bers : <r^v cpjtfiv apifyxojv (fvvitfrd<fi.\ Or again: Things are 
but the copies of Numbers: eivoa rd oVa <rwv dp 

What Pythagoras meant was, that numbers were the ultimate 
nature of things. Anaximander saw that things in themselves 
are not final; they are constantly changing both position and 
attributes; they are variable, and the principle of existence must 
be invariable ; he called that invariable existence the All. 

Pythagoras saw that there was an invariable existence lying 
beneath these varieties; but he wanted some more definite ex¬ 
pression for it, and he'called it Number. Thus each individual 
thing may change its position, its mode of existence; all its pe¬ 
culiar attributes may be destroyed except one, namely, its numer¬ 
ical attribute. It is always “ One ” thing; nothing can destroy 
that numerical existence. Combine the Thing in every possible 
variety of ways, and it still remains “ One;” it cannot be less than 
“one,” it cannot be made more than “one.” Resolve it into its 
minutest particles, and each particle is one. Having thus 
found that numerical existence was the only invariable exist¬ 
ence, he was easily led to proclaim all Things to be but copies 
of Numbers. “All phenomena must originate in the simplest 
elements,” says Sextus Empiricus, “ and it would be contrary to 
reason to suppose the Principle of the Universe to participate in 
the nature of sensible phenomena. The Principia are conse¬ 
quently not only invisible and intangible, but also incorporeal.” 

As numerical existence is the ultimate state at which analysis 
can arrive with respect to finite Things, so also is it the ultimate 


* Aristot. Metaph. i. 6. 


t De Codo , iii. 1. 


% Metaph. i. 6 



PHILOSOPHY OF PYTHAGORAS. 


27 


stale at which we can arrive with respect to the Infinite, or Ex¬ 
istence in itself. The Infinite, therefore, must be One. One is 
the absolute number; it exists in and by itself; it has no need 
ot any relation with any thing else, not even with any other 
number; Two is but the relation of One to One. All modes of 
existence are but finite aspects of the Infinite; so all numbers 
are but numerical relations of the One. In the original One 
all numbers are contained, and consequently the elements of the 
whole world. 

Observe, moreover, that One is necessarily the ap^yj—the be¬ 
ginning of things so eagerly sought by philosophers, since, where- 
ever you begin, you must begin with One. Suppose the num¬ 
ber be three, and you strike off the initial number to make two, 
the second then will be One. In a word, One is the Beginning 
of all things. 

The verbal quibble on which this, as indeed the whole system 
reposes, need not excite any suspicion of the sincerity of Pythag¬ 
oras. The Greeks were unfortunately acquainted with no lan¬ 
guage but their own: and, as a natural consequence, mistook 
distinctions in language for distinctions in things. It has been 
well said by Dr. Whewell, that “ all the first attempts to com¬ 
prehend the operations of Nature led to the introduction of ab¬ 
stract conceptions, vague indeed, but not therefore unmeaning. 
And the next step in philosophizing necessarily was to make 
those vague abstractions more clear and fixed, so that the logical 
faculty should be able to employ them securely and coherently. 
But there were two ways of making this attempt; the one, by 
examining the words only, and the thoughts which they call up; 
the other, by attending to the facts and things which bring these 
abstract terms into use. The Greeks followed the verbal or no¬ 
tional course, and failed.”* 

It is only by means of the above explanation that we can any 
way credit the belief in distinctions so wire-drawn as those ot 


* History of the Inductive Sciences , i. 34. 




28 


THE MATHEMATICIANS. 


Pythagoras; it is only thus that wo can understand how he 
could have held that Numbers were Beings. Aristotle attrib¬ 
utes this philosophy to the fondness of Pythagoras for mathe¬ 
matics, which concerns itself with the abstract, not with the 
material existence of sensible things; but surely this is only half 
the explanation ? The mathematicians in our day not only rea¬ 
son entirely with symbols, which stand as the representatives of 
things, without having the least affinity or resemblance to the 
things (being wholly arbitrary marks), but very many of these 
men never trouble themselves at all With inspecting the things 
about which they reason by means of symbols. Much of the 
science of Astronomy is carried on by those who never use a 
telescope; it is carried on by figures upon paper, and calcula¬ 
tions of those figures. Because, however, astronomers use num¬ 
bers as symbols, they do not suppose that numbers are more 
than symbols. Pythagoras was not able to make this distinc¬ 
tion. He believed that numbers were things in reality, not 
merely in symbol. When therefore Ritter says that the Pytha¬ 
gorean formula “ can only be taken symbolically,” he appears 
to us to commit a great anachronism, and to antedate by several 
centuries a mode of thought at variance with all we know of 
Greek Philosophy; at variance also with the express testimony 
of Aristotle, who says, “The Pythagoreans did not separate 
Numbers from Things. They held number to be the Principle 
and Material of things, no less than their essence and power.”* 
The notion that because we, in the present state of philosophy, 
cannot conceive Numbers otherwise than as symbols, therefore 
Pythagoras must have conceived them in the same way, is one 


* Metaph. i. 5. Perhaps it would be more accurate to say, “ Numbers are 
the beginning of things, the cause of their material existence (v\rjv rots ovm : 
Aristotle has before defined i\tj as causa materialis , cap. 3) and of their modi¬ 
fications (d>j TraOri re Kai 

The whole chapter should be consulted by those who believe in the sym¬ 
bolical use of numbers ; a belief Aristotle had certainly no suspicion of. 1 
have translated all the passages bearing on this point at the close of this* 
Section. 



PHILOSOPHY OF PYTHAGORAS. 


29 


which has been very widely spread, but which we hold to be as 
great an anachronism as Shakespeare’s Hector quoting Aristotle, 
or Racine exhibiting the etiquette of Versailles in the camp of 
Aulis. And Ritter himself, after having stated with considerable 
detail the various points in this philosophy, admits that the 
essential doctrine rests on “the derivation of all in the world 
from mathematical relations, and on the resolution of the rela¬ 
tions of space and time into those of units or numbers. All pro¬ 
ceeds from the original one, or primary number, or from the 
plurality of units or numbers into which the one in its life-devel¬ 
opment divides itself.” Now, to suppose that this doctrine was 
simply mathematical, and not mathematico-cosmological, is to 
violate all principles of historical philosophy; for it is to throw 
the opinions of our day into the period of Pythagoras. For a 
final proof, consider the formula, sivou ra ovrct twv 

dp^fxwv, “Things are the copies of Numbers.” This formula, 
which of all others is the most favorable to the notion we are 
combating, will on a close inspection exhibit the real meaning 
of Pythagoras to be directly the reverse of symbolical. Symbols 
are arbitrary marks, bearing no resemblance to the things they 
represent; a, b , c, x are but letters of the alphabet; the mathe¬ 
matician makes them the symbols of quantities, or of things; 
but no one would call x the copy of an unknown quantity. But 
what is the meaning of Things being copies of Numbers, if they 
are Numbers in essence ? The meaning w r e must seek in an¬ 
terior explanations. We shall there find that Things are the 
concrete existences of abstract Existence ; and that when numbers 
are said to be the principia , it is meant that the forms of ma¬ 
terial things, the original essences, which remain invariable, are 
Numbers.* Thus a stone is One stone; as such it is a copy of 
One; it is the realization of the abstract One into a concrete 

* Hence we must caution against supposing Pythagoras to have antici¬ 
pated the theory of “definite proportions.” Numbers are not the laws of 
combination, nor the expression of those laws, but the essences which re¬ 
main invariable under every variety of combination. 




30 


TIIE MATHEMATICIANS. 


stone. Let the stone be ground to dust, and the particle of 
dust is still a copy, another copy of the One. 

The reader will bear in mind that we have only a few mystical 
expressions, such as, “Number is the principle of Things,” 
handed down to us as the doctrines of a Thinker who created a 
considerable school, and whose influence on philosophy was 
undeniably immense. We have to interpret these expressions 
as we best can. Above all, we have to give them some appear¬ 
ance of plausibility; and this not so much an appearance of 
plausibility to modern thinkers as what would have been plausi¬ 
ble to the ancients. Now, as far as we have familiarized our¬ 
selves with the antique modes of thought, our interpretation of 
Pythagoras is one which, if not the true, is at any rate very 
analogous to it; by such a logical process he might have arrived 
at his conclusions, and for our purpose this is almost the same as 
if he had arrived at them by it. 

This history lias but to settle two questions respecting Py¬ 
thagoras : first, did he regard Numbers as symbols merely, or as 
entities ? Second, if he regarded them as entities, how could he 
have arrived at such an opinion ? The second of these questions 
has been answered in a hypothetical manner in the remarks just 
made; but of course the explanation is worthless if the first ques¬ 
tion be negatived, and to that question therefore we now turn. If 
we are to accept the authority of Aristotle, the question is distinctly 
and decisively answered, as we have seen, in favor of the reality 
of Numbers. It is true that doubts are thrown on the authority 
of Aristotle, who is said to have misunderstood or misrepresented 
the Pythagorean doctrine; but when we consider the compre¬ 
hensiveness and exactness of Aristotle’s mighty intellect; when 
we consider further that he had paid more than his usual atten¬ 
tion to the doctrines of the Pythagoreans, having written a 
special treatise thereon, we shall be slow to reject any statement 
he may make unless letter evidence is produced; and where can 
better evidence be sought ? . Either we must accept Aristotle, or 
be silent on the whole matter; unless, indeed, we prefer—as 


PHILOSOPHY OF PYTHAGORAS. 


31 


many prefer—our own sagacity to his authority. It may be 
stated as a final consideration, that the view taken by the Stagi- 
rite is in perfect conformity with the opinions of Anaximander • 
so that given, the philosophy of the master, we might a priori 
deduce the opinions of the pupil. 

The nature of this Work forbids any detailed account of the 
various opinions attributed to Pythagoras on subsidiary points. 
But we may instance nis celebrated theory of the music of the 
spheres as a good specimen of the deductive method employed 
by him. Assuming that every thing in the great Arrangement 
(xoa'fAos), which he called the world, must be harmoniously 
arranged, and, assuming that the planets were at the same pro¬ 
portionate distances from one another as the divisions of the 
monochord, he concluded that in passing through the ether they 
must make a sound, and that this sound would vary according to 
the diversity of their magnitude, velocity, and relative distance. 
Saturn gave the deepest tone, as being the furthest from the 
earth ; the Moon gave the shrillest, as being nearest to the earth. 

It maybe necessary just to state that the attempt to make 
Pythagoras a Monotheist is utterly without solid basis, and 
unworthy of detailed refutation. 

His doctrine of the Transmigration of Souls has been regarded 
as symbolical; with very little reason, or rather with no reason 
at all. He defined the soul to be a Monad (unit) which was 
self-moved.* Of course the soul, inasmuch as it was a number, 
was One, i. e. perfect. But all perfection, in as far as it is 
moved, must pass into imperfection, whence it strives to regain 
its state of perfection. Imperfection he called a departure from 
unity; two therefore was accursed. 

The soul in man is in a state of comparative imperfection.f 
It has three elements, Reason (vouj), Intelligence (<pp»jv), and 


* Aristot., De Anima, i. 2. 

t Thus Aristotle expresses himself when he says that the Pythagoreans 
maintained the soul and intelligence to be a certain combination of numbers, 
ro ce* Toiovll (sc. tu>v upidfiZv xdOof) gt>x»y vovs. — Metaph., i. 5. 



32 


THE MATHEMATICIANS. 


Passion (^ujxo'j): the two last man has in common with brutes; 
the first is his distinguishing characteristic. It has hence been 
concluded that Pythagoras could not have maintained the doc¬ 
trine of transmigration, his distinguishing man from brutes being 
a refutation of those who charge him with the doctrine.* The 
objection is plausible, and points out a contradiction; but there 
is abundant evidence for the belief that transmigration was 
taught.f The soul, being a self-moved monad, is One, whether 
it connect itself with two or with three; in other words, the 
essence remains the same whatever its manifestations. The One 
soul may have two aspects, Intelligence and Passion, as in 
brutes; or it may have the three aspects, as in man. Each of 
these aspects may predominate, and the man will then become 
eminently rational, or able, or sensual. He will be a philosopher, 
a man of the world, or a beast. Hence the importance of the 
Pythagorean initiation, and of the studies of Mathematics and 
Music. 

“ This soul, which can look before and after, can shrink and 
shrivel itself into an incapacity of contemplating aught but the 
present moment, of what depths of degeneracy is it capable! 
What a beast it may become! And if something low r er than 
itself, why not something higher? And if something higher 
and lower, may there not be a law accurately determining its 
elevation and descent? Each soul has its peculiar evil tastes, 
bringing it to the likeness of different creatures beneath itself; 
why may it not be under the necessity of abiding in the condi¬ 
tion of that thing to which it had adapted and reduced itself?”]; 

In closing this account of a very imperfectly known doctrine, 
we have only further to exhibit its relation to the preceding 
philosophy. It is clearly an offshoot of Anaximander’s doctrine, 


* Pierre Leroux, De V Humanite, i. S90-426. 

f Plato distinctly mentions the transmigration into beasts.— Phadrus , p. 45. 
And the Pythagorean Timseus, in his statement of the doctrine, also ex¬ 
pressly includes beasts.— Timcsus, p. 45. 
t Maurice, Moral and Metaphysical Philosophy. 



PHILOSOPHY OF PYTHAGORAS. 


S3 


which it develops in a more logical manner. In Anaximander 
there remained a trace of physical inquiry; in Pythagoras 
science is frankly mathematical. Assuming that number is the 
real invariable essence of the world, it was a natural deduction 
that the world is regulated by numerical proportions; and from 
this all the rest of his system followed as a consequence. Anax¬ 
imander’s system is but a rude and daring sketch of a doctrine 
which the great mathematical genius of Pythagoras developed. 
The Infinite of Anaximander became the One of Pythagoras. 
Observe that in neither of these systems is Mind an attribute of 
the Infinite. It has been frequently maintained that Pythagoras 
taught the doctrine of “ a soul of the world.” But there is no 
solid ground for the opinion, any more than for that of his 
Theism, which later writers anxiously attributed to him. The 
conception of an Infinite Mind is much later than Pythagoras. 
He only regarded Mind as a phenomenon; as the peculiar man¬ 
ifestation of an essential number; and the proof of this assertion 
we take to lie in his very doctrine of the soul. If the Monad, 
which is self-nfoved, can pass into the state of a brute or of 
a plant, in which state it successively loses its Reason (vou^) and 
its Intelligence (<ppv v ) to become merely sensual and concupisci- 
ble, does not this abdication of Reason and Intelligence distinctly 
prove them to be only variable manifestations (phenomena) of 
the invariable Essence ? Assuredly; and those who argue for 
the Soul of the World as an Intelligence in the Pythagorean 
doctrine, must renounce both the doctrine of transmigration and 
the central doctrine of the system, the invariable Number as the 
Essence of things. 

Pythagoras represents the second epoch of the second Branch 
of Ionian Philosophy; he is parallel with Anaximenes. 


34 


THE MATHEMATICIANS. 


Translations from the 5 th Chapter of Book I. of Aristotle's 

Metaphysics. 

“ In the age of these philosophers [the Eleats and Atomists], 
and even before them, lived those called Pythagoreans, whc 
at first applied themselves to mathematics, a science they im¬ 
proved ; and, having been trained exclusively in it, they fancied 
that the principles of mathematics were the principles of all 
things. 

“Since numbers are by nature prior to all things, in Numbers 
they thought they perceived greater analogies with that which 
exists and that which is produced (o/xojwjixara •xoXkct ro7g ovcfi 
xui yiyvopsvoig), than in fire, earth, or water. So that a certain 
combination of Numbers was justice ; and a certain other com¬ 
bination of Numbers was Reason and Intelligence ; and a certain 
other combination of Numbers was opportunity ( xatpog) ; and so 
of the rest. 

“Moreover, they saw in Numbers the combinations of har¬ 
mony. Since-therefore all things seemed formed similarly to 
Numbers, and Numbers being by nature anterior to things, they 
concluded that the elements (crtor^sid) of Numbers are the ele¬ 
ments of things, and that the whole heaven is a harmony and 
a Number. Having indicated the great analogies between Num¬ 
bers and the phenomena of heaven and its parts, and with the 
phenomena of the wdiole world (r^v o\rjv fiictxorffxrjrfivf they 
formed a system; and if any gap was apparent in the system, 
they used every effort to restore the connection. Thus, since 
Ten appeared to them a perfect number, potentially containing 
all numbers, they declared that the moving celestial bodies (<rd 
<j)Spofxsva xu-ra tov oupavov) were ten in number; but because 
only nine are visible they imagined (tfoioutfi) a tenth, the An- 
ticthone. 

“ We have treated of all these things more in detail elsewhere 
But the reason why we recur to them is this—that we may 
learn from these philosophers also what they lay down as their 


aeistotle’s metaphysics. 35 

first principles, and by what process they hit upon the causes 
aforesaid. 

u They maintained that Number was the Beginning (Princi¬ 
ple, ctp^) of things, the cause of their material existence, and 
of their modifications and different states. The elements (jfro^sTa) 
of Number are Odd and Even. The Odd is finite, the Even 
infinite. Unity, the One, partakes of both these, and is both 
Odd and Even. All number is derived from the One. The 
heavens, as we said before, are composed of numbers. Other 
Pythagoreans say there are ten Principia, those called co-ordi¬ 
nates : 

The finite and the infinite. 

The odd and the even. 

The one and the many. 

The right and the left. 

The male and the female. 

The quiescent and the moving. 

The right line and the curve. 

Light and darkness. 

Good and evil. 

The square and the oblong. 

“ . . . All the Pythagoreans considered the elements as ma¬ 
terial ; for the elements are in all things, and constitute the 
world. . . . 

u . . . The finite, the infinite, and the One they maintained 
to be not separate existences, such as are fire, water, etc.; but 
the abstract Infinite and the abstract One are respectively the 
substance of the things of which they are predicated, and hence, 
too, Number is the substance of all things (auro rd a-rsipov, 
mi auro to sv, outfiav s/vat rourov). They began by attending 
only to the Form , and began to define it; but on this subject 
they were very imperfect. They define superficially; and that 
which suited their definition they declared to be the essence 
(causa materially) of the thing defined; as if one should main¬ 
tain that the double and the number two are the same thing, 


36 


THE MATHEMATICIANS. 


because the double is first found in the two. But two and the 
double are not equal (in essence), or if so, then the one would 
be many; a consequence which follows from their (the Pytha¬ 
gorean) doctrine.” 

( We add also a passage from the V th Chapter of the same Book.) 

“ The Pythagoreans employ the Principia and Elements more 
strangely than even the Physiologists; the cause of which is 
that they do not take them from sensible things (auras ovx e% 
aiVflijrwv). However, all their researches are physical; all their 
systems are physical. They explain the production of heaven, 
and observe that which takes place in its various parts, and its 
ievolutions; and thus they employ their Principles and Causes, 
as if they agreed with the Physiologists, that whatever is is 
material (a/V^rov), and is that which contains wdiat we call 
heaven. 

“ But their Causes and Principles we should pronounce suffi¬ 
cient (ixa vag) to raise them up to the conception of Intelligible 
things,—of things above sense (stfava/3$jvai xat itfi rd avwrspw 
<rwv ovrwv); and would accord with such a conception much 
better than with that of physical things.” 

This criticism of Aristotle’s is a perfect refutation of those who 
see in Pythagoras the traces of symbolical doctrine. Aristotle 
sees how much more rational the doctrine would have been had 
it been symbolical; but this very remark proves that it w r as 
not so. 


CHAPTER III. 

THE ELEATICS. 


§ I. Xenophanes. 

The contradictory statements which so long obscured the ques¬ 
tion of the date of Xenophanes’ birth, may now be said to be 
satisfactorily cleared up. M. Victor Cousin’s essay on the sub¬ 
ject will leave few readers unconvinced.* We may assert there¬ 
fore with some probability, that Xenophanes was born in the 
40th Olympiad (b. c. 620-616), and that he lived nearly a hun¬ 
dred years. His birthplace was Colophon, an Ionian city of 
Asia Minor; a city long famous as the seat of elegiac and gnomic 
poetry, and ranking the poet Mimnermus among its celebrated 
men. Xenophanes cultivated this species of poetry from youth 
upwards; it was the joy of his youth, the consolation of his man¬ 
hood, and support of his old age. Banished from his native city, 
he wandered over Sicily as a Rhapsodist ;f a profession he exer¬ 
cised apparently till his death, though, if we are to credit Plu¬ 
tarch, with very little pecuniary benefit. He lived poor, and died 
poor. But he could dispense with riches, having within him treas¬ 
ures inexhaustible. He whose whole soul was enwrapt in the con¬ 
templation of grand ideas, and whose vocation was the poetical 
expression of those ideas, needed but little worldly grandeur. 
He seems to have been one of the most remarkable men of anti- 


* Nouveaux Frogmens Philosophiques .—The critical reader will observe 
some misstatements in this essay, but on the whole it is well worthy of 
perusal. Karsten’s Xenopkanis Garminum Reliquice is of great value. 

t The Rhapsodists were the Minstrels of antiquity. They learned poems 
Dy heart, and recited them to assembled crowds on the occasions of feasts. 
Homer was a rhapsodist, and rhapsodized his own verses. 



3S 


THE ELEATICS. 


quit} 7 , and also one of the most fanatical. He had no pity foi 
the idle and luxurious superstitions of his time; he had no toler¬ 
ance for the sunny legends of Homer, defaced as they were by 
the errors of polytheism. He, a poet, was fierce in the combat 
he perpetually waged with the first of poets: not from petty 
envy ; not from petty ignorance; but from the deep sincerity of 
his heart, from the holy enthusiasm of his reverence. He who 
believed in one God, supreme in power, goodness, and intelli¬ 
gence, could not witness without pain the degradation of the 
Divine in the common religion. He was not dead to the poetic 
beauty of the Homeric fables, but keenly alive to their religious 
falsehood. Plato, whom none will accuse of wanting poetical 
taste, made the same objection. The latter portion of the second 
and the beginning of the third books of Plato’s Republic are but 
expansions of these verses of Xenophanes : 

“Such things of the Gods are related by Homer and Hesiod 

As would be shame and abiding disgraoe to any of mankind ; 

Promises broken, and thefts, and the one deceiving the other.” 

• 

He who firmly believed in 

“ One God, of all beings divine and human the greatest, 

Neither in body alike unto mortals, neither in spirit,”* 

could not but see, “ more in sorrow than in anger,” the gross an¬ 
thropomorphism of his fellows: 

“But men foolishly think that Gods are born like as men are, 

And have too a dress like their own, and their voice and their figure : 
But if oxen and lions had hands like ours, and fingers, 

Then would horses like unto horses, and oxen to oxen, 

Paint and fashion their god-forms, and give to them bodies 
Of like shape to their own, as they themselves too are fashioned.”f 


* This is to important a position to admit of our passing over the ori¬ 
ginal : 

Eh 9cfis ev re Qtoiai Kai avOpibnouri ptyiaroi 
O fire fiipas Ovijroloiv bfiottos odre v6t])ia. — Fragm. i., ed. JTarsten. 
Wiggers, in his Life of Socrates , expresses his surprise that Xenophanes 
was allowed to speak so freely respecting the State Beligion in Magna 
Grtecia, when philosophical opinions much less connected with religion 
had proved so fatal to Anaxagoras in Athens. But the apparent contra¬ 
diction is perhaps reconciled when we remember that Xenophanes was a 
poet, and poets have in all ages been somewhat privileged persons. 

+ Fragments v. and vi. are here united, as in Bitter; the sense seems 



XENOPHANES. 


39 


Iii confirmation of which satire he referred to the Ethiopians, 
who represent their gods with flat noses and black complexion ; 
while the Thracians give them blue eyes and ruddy complexions. 

Having attained a clear recognition of the unity and perfec¬ 
tion of the Godhead, it became the object of his life to spread 
that conviction abroad, and to tear down the thick veil of super¬ 
stition which hid the august couuteuauce of truth. He looked 
around him, and saw mankind divided into two classes: those 
who speculated on the nature of things, endeavoring to raise 
themselves up to a recognition of the Divine; and those who 
yielded an easy unreflecting assent to the superstitions which 
composed religion. The first class speculated; but they kept 
their speculations to themselves, and to a small circle of disciples. 
If they sought truth, it was not to communicate it to all minds: 
they did not work for humanity, but for the few. Even Pythag¬ 
oras, earnest thinker as he w r as, could not be made to believe in 
the fitness of the multitude for truth. He had two sorts of doc¬ 
trine to teach: one for a few disciples, whom he chose with ex¬ 
treme caution; the other for those who pleased to listen. The 
former doctrine was what he believed the truth ; the latter was 
what he thought the masses were fitted to receive. Xenophanes 
recognized no such distinction. Truth was for all men; to all 
men he endeavored to present it; and for three-quarters of a 
century he, the great Rhapsodist of Truth, emulated his country¬ 
man Homer, the great Rhapsodist of Beauty, and wandered into 
many lands, uttering the thought which was working in him. 
What a contrast is presented by these two Ionian singers! con¬ 
trast in purpose, in means, and in fate. The rhapsodies of the 
philosopher, once so eagerly listened to and affectionately pre¬ 
served in traditionary fragments, are now only extant in briefest 
extracts contained in ancient books, so ancient and so uninterest¬ 
ing as to be visited only by some rare old scholars and a few 

to demand this conjunction. But Clemens Alexandrinus quotes the sec¬ 
ond Fragment as if it occurred in another part of the poem; introducing 
it with Kal Tzd\iv <prj<Ti, “and again he says.”— Karsten , p. 41. 



40 


THE ELEATICS. 


dilettanti spiders; while the rhapsodies of the blind singer are 
living in the brain and heart of thousands and thousands, win? 
go back to them as the fountain-source of poetry, the crystal 
mirror of an antique world. 

The world presented itself to Homer in pictures, to Xenophanes 
in problems. The one saw Nature, enjoyed it, and painted it. 
The other also saw Nature, but questioned it, and wrestled with 
it. Every trait in Homer is sunny clear; in Xenophanes there 
is indecision, confusion. In Homer there is a resonance of glad¬ 
ness, a sense of manifold life, activity, and enjoyment. In Xeno¬ 
phanes there is bitterness, activity of a spasmodic sort, infinite 
doubt, and infinite sadness. The one w'as a poet singing as the 
bird sings, carolling for very exuberance of life; the other was a 
Thinker, and a fanatic. He did not sing, he recited : 

“Ah! how unlike 

To that large utterance of the early Gods!” 

That the earnest philosopher should have opposed the sunny 
poet, opposed him even with bitterness, on account of the de¬ 
graded action's and motives which he attributed to the Gods, is 
natural; but we must distinguish between this opposition and 
satire. Xenophanes was bitter, not satirical. The statement de¬ 
rived from Diogenes, that he wrote satires against Homer and He¬ 
siod, is erroneous.* Those who think otherwise are referred to 
the excellent essay of Victor Cousin, before mentioned, or to 
Ritter. 

Rhapsodizing philosophy, and availing himself, for that pur¬ 
pose, of all that philosophers had discovered, he wandered from 
place to place, and at last came to Elea, where he settled. Hegel 
questions this: he says he finds no distinct mention of such a 
fact in any of the ancient writers; on the contrary, Strabo, in his 


* r (ypafe tie Kai ev eneaiv, Kai e\cyctaf, Kai id/.i(5ovs Kara 'Haidtiov Kai ’O/njpov. 
Here, says M. Cousin, the word idufiovs is either an interpolation of a copy¬ 
ist, as Feurlin and Rossi conjecture, or else it is a misstatement by Diogenes. 
There is not a single iambic verse of his remaining. But in his hexameters 
he opposes Homer and Hesiod, as we have seen. 



XENOPHANES. 


41 


sixth book, when describing Elea, speaks of Parmenides and 
Zeno as having lived there, but is silent respecting Xenophanes, 
which Hegel holds to be suspicious. Indeed the words of Dio¬ 
genes Laertius are vague. He says, ‘‘Xenophanes wrote two 
thousand verses on the foundation of Colophon, and on a colony 
sent to Elea.” This by no means implies that he lived there. 
Nevertheless we concur with the modern writers who, from the 
various connections with the Eleatics observable in his fragments, 
maintain that he must actually have resided there. The reader 
is again referred to M. Cousin on this point. Be that as it may, 
Xenophanes terminated a long and active life without having 
solved the great problem. The indecision of his acute mind 
sowed the seeds of that skepticism which was hereafter to play so 
large a part in philosophy. All his knowledge enabled him only 
to know how little he knew. His state of mind is finely described 
by Timon the sillograph, who puts into the mouth of Xenophanes 
these words: 

“ Oh that mine were the deep mind, prudent and looking to both sides! 
Long, alas! have I strayed on the road of error, beguiled, 

And am, now, hoary of years, yet exposed to doubt and distraction 
Manifold, all-perplexing, for whithersoever I turn me 
I am lost in the One and All.”—(eh ev ravrd re ndv ave\6ero.)* 

It now remains for us to state some of the conclusions at which 
this great man arrived. They will not, perhaps, answer to the 
reader’s expectation ; as with Pythagoras, the reputation for ex¬ 
traordinary wisdom seems ill justified by the fragments of that 
wisdom which have descended to us. But although to modern 
philosophy the conclusions of these early thinkers may appear 
trivial, let us never forget that it is to these early thinkers that 
we owe our modern philosophy. Had there not been many a 

“ Gray spirit yearning in desire 
To follow knowledge, like a sinking star, 

Beyond the utmost bound of human thought,”! 


* Preserved by Sextus Empiricus, Hypot. Pyrrhon. i. 224; and quoted 
also by Bitter, i. 443. 

\ Tennyson. 



42 


THE ELKATICS. 


we should not have been able to travel on the secure terrestrial 
path of slow inductive science. The impossible has to be proved 
impossible, before men will consent to limit their endeavors to 
the compassing* of the possible. And it was the cry of despair 
which escaped from Xenophanes, the cry that nothing can be 
certainly known, which first called men’s attention to the nothing¬ 
ness of knowledge, as knowledge was then conceived. Xenophanes 
opens a series of thinkers, which attained its climax in Pyrrho. 
That he should thus have been at the head of the monotheists, 
and at the head of the skeptics, is sufficient to entitle his specu¬ 
lations to an extended consideration here. 

§ II. The Philosophy of Xenophanes. 

The great problem of existence had early presented itself to his 
mind; and the resolution of that problem by Thales and Pythag¬ 
oras had left him unsatisfied. Neither the physical nor the 
mathematical explanation could still the doubts which rose within 
him. On all sides he was oppressed with mysteries, which these 
doctrines could not penetrate. The state of his mind is graphic¬ 
ally painted in that one phrase of Aristotle’s: “ Casting his eyes 
upwards at the immensity of heaven, he declared that The One 
is God.” Overarching him w 7 as the deep blue, infinite vault, 
immovable, unchangeable, embracing him and all things; that 
he proclaimed to be God. As Thales had gazed abroad upon the 
sea, and felt that he was resting on its infinite bosom, so Xeno- 
phanes gazed above him at the sky, and felt that he was encom¬ 
passed by it. Moreover it was a great mystery, inviting yet de¬ 
fying scrutiny. The sun and moon whirled to and fro through 
it; the stars were 

“Pinnacled dim in its intense inane.” 

The earth was constantly aspiring to it in the shape of vapor, the 
souls of men were perpetually aspiring to it with vague yearn¬ 
ings. It was the centre of all existence; it was Existence itself. 
It was The One,—the Immovable, on whose bosom the Many 
were moved. 



THE PHILOSOPHY OF XENOPHANES. 


43 


Is not this the explanation of that opinion universally attrib¬ 
uted to him, but always variously interpreted, “God is a sphere?” 
The Heaven encompassing him and all things, was it not The 
One Sphere which he proclaimed to be God ? 

It is very true that this explanation does not exactly accord 
with his physics, especially with that part which relates to the 
earth being a flat surface, whose inferior regions are infinite, by 
which he explained the fixity of the earth. M. Cousin, in conse¬ 
quence of this discrepancy, would interpret the phrase as meta¬ 
phorical. “ The epithet spherical is simply a Greek locution, to 
indicate the perfect equality and absolute unity of God, and of 
which a sphere may be an image. The (f<paipixog of the Greeks 
is the rotundus of the Latins. It is a metaphorical expression, 
such as that of square , meaning perfect; an expression which, 
though now become trivial, had at the birth of mathematical 
science something noble and elevated in it, and is found in most 
elevated compositions of poetry. Simonides speaks of a ‘man 
square as to his feet, his hands, and his mind,’ meaning an ac¬ 
complished man; and the metaphor is also used by Aristotle. 
It is not, therefore, surprising that Xenophanes, a poet as well as 
a philosopher, writing in verse, and incapable of finding the meta¬ 
physical expression which answered to his ideas, should have 
borrowed from the language of imagination the expression which 
would best render his idea.” 

We should be tempted to adopt this explanation, could we be 
satisfied that the Physics of Xenophanes were precisely what it 
is said they were, or that they were such at the epoch in which 
he maintained the sphericity of God. This latter difficulty is in¬ 
superable, but has been unobserved by all critics. A man who 
lives a hundred years, necessarily changes his opinions on such 
subjects; and when opinions are so lightly grounded, as were 
those of philosophers at that epoch, it is but natural to admit 
that the changes may have been frequent and abrupt. In this 
special instance, scholars have been aware of the very great and 
irreconcilable contradictions existing between certain opinions 


44 


THE ELEATICS. 


equally authentic; showing him to have been decidedly Physical 
(Ionian) in one department, and as decidedly Mathematical (Pyth¬ 
agorean) in another. 

As to the case in point, Aristotle’s express statement of Xe¬ 
nophanes having “ looked up at heaven, and pronounced The One 
to be God,” is manifestly at variance with any belief in the in¬ 
finity of the lower regions of the earth. The One must be the 
Infinite. 

To return, however, to his Monotheism, or more properly 
Pantheism, which is the greatest peculiarity of his doctrine: he 
not only destroyed the notion of a multiplicity of Gods, but he 
proclaimed the Self-existence and Intelligence of The One. 

God must be Self-existent; for to conceive Being as incipient is 
impossible. Nothing can be produced from Nothing. Whence, 
therefore, was Being produced? From itself? No; for then it 
must have been already in existence to produce itself, otherwise 
it would have been produced from nothing. Hence the primary 
law: Being is self-existent. If self-existent, consequently eternal. 

As in this it is implied that God is all-powerful and all-wise 
and all-existent, a multiplicity of Gods is inconceivable. 

It also follows that God is immovable, when considered as 
The All: 

“Wholly unmoved and unmoving it ever remains in the same place, 
“Without change in its place when at times it changes appearance.” 

The All must be unmoved; there is nothing to move it. It 
cannot move itself; for to do so it must be external to itself. 

We must not suppose that he denied motion to finite things 
because he denied it to the Infinite. He only maintained that 
The All was unmoved. Finite things were moved by God: 
“ without labor, he ruleth all things by reason and insight.” His 
monotheism was carefully distinguished from anthropomorphism, 
as the verses previously quoted have already exemplified. Let 
us only further remark on the passage in Diogenes Laertius, 
wherein he is said to have maintained that “ God did not re¬ 
semble man, for he heard and saw all things without - espira■ 


THE PHILOSOPHY OF XENOPHANES. 


45 


tion .” This is manifestly an allusion to the doctrine of Anax¬ 
imenes that the soui was air. The intelligence of God, being 
utterly unlike that of man, is said to be independent of respi¬ 
ration.* 

It is necessary to caution the reader against the supposition 
that by the One God Xenophanes meant a Personal God, dis¬ 
tinct from the universe. He was a monotheist in contradistinc¬ 
tion to his polytheistical contemporaries; but his monotheism 
was pantheism. Indeed this point would never have been 
doubted, notwithstanding the ambiguity of language, if moderns 
had steadily kept before their minds the conceptions held by the 
Greeks of their Gods as personifications of the Powers of Nature. 
When Xenophanes argued against the polytheism of his con¬ 
temporaries, he argued against their ’personifying as distinct dei¬ 
ties the various aspects of The One; he was wroth with their 
degradation of the divine nature by assimilating it to human 
nature, by making these powers 'persons , and independent exist¬ 
ences,—conceptions irreconcilable with that of the unity of God. 
He was a monotheist therefore, but his monotheism was pantlie 
ism ; he could not separate God from the world, which was 
merely the manifestation of God; he could not conceive God 
as the One Existent, and admit the existence of a world not God. 
There could be but One Existence with many modes; that one 
was God. 

There is another tenet of almost equal importance in his sys¬ 
tem, and one which marks the origin of that skeptical philoso¬ 
phy which we shall see henceforward running through all the 
evolutions of this history, always determining a crisis in specula¬ 
tion. Up to the time of Xenophanes philosophy was unsus¬ 
pectingly dogmatical: it never afterwards recovered that simple 
position. He it was who began to doubt, and to confess the in- 


* Only by thus connecting one doctrine with another can we hope to un¬ 
derstand ancient philosophy. It is in vain that we puzzle ourselves with 
the attempt to penetrate the meaning of these antique fragments of thought 
unless we view them in relation to the opinions of their epoch. 

6 



46 


THE ELEATICS. 


competence of Reason to solve doubts and compass the exalted 
aims of philosophy. Yet the doubt was moral rather than psy¬ 
chological. It was no systematic skepticism : an earnest spirit 
struggling after Truth, whenever he obtained, or thought he ob¬ 
tained, a glimpse of her celestial countenance, he proclaimed his 
discovery, however it might contradict what he had before an¬ 
nounced. Long travel, various experience, examination of differ¬ 
ent systems, new and contradictory glimpses of the problem he 
was desirous of solving,—these working together produced in 
his mind a skepticism of a noble, somewhat touching sort, wholly 
unlike that of his successors. It was the combat of contradictory 
opinions in his mind, rather than disdain of knowledge. His 
faith was steady, his opinions vacillating. He had a profound 
conviction of the existence of an eternal, all-wise, infinite Beings; 
but this belief he was unable to reduce to a consistent formula. 
There is deep sadness in these verses: 

“ Surely never hath been, nor ever shall be a mortal 
Knowing both well the Gods and the All, whose nature we treat of; 

For when by chance he at times may utter the true and the perfect, 

He wists not unconscious; for error is spread over all things .” 

In vain M. Cousin attempts to prove that these verses are not 
skeptical; many of the recorded opinions of Xenophanes are of 
the same tendency. The man who had lived to find his most 
cherished convictions turn out errors, might well be skeptical of 
the truth of any of his opinions. But this skepticism was vague; 
it did not prevent his proclaiming what he held to be the truth; 
it did not prevent his search after truth. 

For although Truth could never be compassed in its totality 
by man, glimpses could be caught. ’AXXot p^povw ^rjvouvTS^ 
i<psup!(fxov(fiv a/xsivov: we cannot indeed be certain that our knowl¬ 
edge is absolute; we can only strive our utmost, and believe our 
opinions to be probable. This is not scientific skepticism; it 
does not ground itself on an investigation of the nature of Intel¬ 
ligence and the sources of our knowledge: it grounds itself 
solely on the perplexities into which philosophy is thrown. Thus 


THE PHILOSOPHY OF XENOPHANES. 


47 


reason [i. e. the logic of his clay) taught him that God the Infi¬ 
nite could not be infinite, neither could he be finite. Not in¬ 
finite, because non-being alone, as having neither beginning, 
middle, nor end, is unlimited (infinite). Not finite, because one 
thing can only be limited by another, and God is one, not manv. 

In like manner did logic teach him that God was neither 
moved nor unmoved. Not moved, because one thing can only 
be moved by another, and God is one, not many; not unmoved, 
because non-being alone is unmoved, inasmuch as it neither goes 
to another, nor does another come to it. 

With such verbal quibbles as these did this great thinker 
darken his conception of the Deity. They were not quibbles to 
him; they were the real conclusions involved in the premises 
from which he reasoned. To have doubted their validity would 
have been to doubt the possibility of philosophy. He was not quite 
prepared for that; and Aristotle in consequence calls him “ some¬ 
what clownish,” aypoixorspog [Met. i. 5); meaning that his con¬ 
ceptions were rude and undigested, instead of being systematized. 

Although in the indecision of Xenophanes we see the germs 
of later skepticism, we are disposed to agree with M. Cousin in 
discrediting his absolute skepticism—resting on the incompre¬ 
hensibility of all things— axuraX^'ict tfccvruv. Nevertheless some 
of M. Cousin’s grounds appear to us questionable.* 

The reader will, perhaps, have gathered from the foregoing, 
that Xenophanes was too much in earnest to believe in the in- . 
comprehensibility of all things, however the contradictions of his 
logic might cause him to suspect his and other people’s conclu¬ 
sions. Of course, if carried out to their legitimate consequences, 
his principles lead to absolute skepticism; but he did not so 

* E g. He says: “ It appears that Sotion, according to Diogenes, attrib¬ 
uted to Xenophanes the opinion, all things are incomprehensible; but Dio¬ 
genes adds that Sotion was wrong on that point.” ( Fragmens , p. 89.) Now 
this is altogether a misstatemfent. Diogenes says: “Sotion pretends that 
no one before Xenophanes maintained the incomprehensibility of all things; 
but he is wrong.” Diogenes here does not deny that Xenophanes held the 
opinion, but that any one held it before him. 



48 


THE ELEATICS. 


carry them out, and we have no right to charge him with con¬ 
sequences which he himself did not draw. Indeed, it is one of 
the greatest and commonest of critical errors, to charge the ori¬ 
ginator or supporter of a doctrine with consequences which he 
did not see, or would not have accepted had he seen them. 
Because they may be contained in his principles, it by no means 
follows that he saw them. A man would be ridiculed if he 
attributed to the discoverer of any law of nature the various dis¬ 
coveries which the application of that law might have produced ; 
nevertheless these applications were all potentially existing in 
the law ; but as the discoverer of the law was not aware of them, 
he does not get the credit. Why, then, should a man have the 
ch's-credit of conseqences contained, indeed, in his principles, but 
which he himself could not see? On the whole, although 
Xenophanes was not a clear and systematic thinker, it cannot 
be denied that he exercised a very remarkable influence on the 
progress of speculation; as we shall see in his successors. 

* 

§ III. Parmenides. 

The readers of Plato will not forget the remarkable dialogue 
in which he pays a tribute to the dialectical subtlety of Par¬ 
menides ; but we must at the outset caution them against any 
belief in the genuineness of the opinions attributed to him by 
Plato. If Plato could reconcile to himself the propriety of alter- 
. mg the sentiments of his beloved master, Socrates, and of 
attributing to him such as he had never entertained; with far 
greater reason could he put into the mouth of one long dead, 
sentiments which were the invention of his own dramatic genius. 
Let us read the Parmenides , therefore, with extreme caution; 
let us prefer the authority of Aristotle and the verses of Parmen¬ 
ides which have been preserved. 

Parmenides was born at Elea, somewhere about the 61st 
Olympiad (b. c. 536). This date does not contradict the rumor 
which, according to Aristotle, asserted him to have been a disci¬ 
ple of Xenophanes, whom he might have listened to when that 


PARMENIDES. 


49 


great rhapsodist was far advanced in years. The most positive 
statement, however, is that by Sotion, of his having been taught by 
Ameinias and Diochoetes the Pythagorean. But both may be true. 

Born to wealth and splendor, enjoying the esteem and envy 
which always follow splendor and talents, it is conjectured that 
his early career was that of a dissipated voluptuary; but Dio¬ 
choetes taught him the nothingness of wealth (at times, perhaps, 
when satiety had taught him the nothingness of enjoyment), and 
led him from the dull monotony of noisy revelry to the endless 
variety and excitement of philosophic thought. He forsook the 
feverish pursuit of enjoyment, to contemplate “the bright coun¬ 
tenance of Truth, in the quiet and still air of delightful studies.” * 
But this devotion to study was no egoistical seclusion. It did 
not prevent his taking an active share in the political affairs of 
his native city. On the contrary, the fruits of his study were 
shown in a code of laws which he drew up, and which were 
deemed so wise and salutary, that the citizens at first yearly 
renewed their oath to abide by the laws of Parmenides. 

“ And something: greater did his worth obtain, 

For fearless virtue bringeth boundless gain.” 

The first characteristic of his philosophy, is the decided dis¬ 
tinction between Truth and Opinion: in other words, between 
the ideas obtained through the Iteason and those obtained 
through Sense. In Xenophanes we noticed a vague glimmering 
of this notion; in Parmenides it attained to something like 
clearness. In Xenophanes it contrived to throw an uncertainty 
over all things; which, in a logical thinker, would become 
absolute skepticism. But he was saved from skepticism by his 
faith. Parmenides was saved from it by his philosophy. He 
was perfectly aware of the deceitful nature of opinion ; but he was 
also aware that within him there was certain ineradicable convic¬ 
tions, in which, like Xenophanes, he had perfect faith, but which 
he wished to explain by reason. Thus was he led in some sort to 


* Milton. 




50 


THE ELEATICS. 


anticipate the celebrated doctrine of innate ideas. These ideas 
were concerning necessary truths; they were true knowledge: 
all other ideas were uncertain. 

The Eleatics, as Ritter remarks, believed that they recognized 
and could demonstrate that the truth of all things is one and 
unchangeable; perceiving, however, that the human faculty of 
thought is constrained to follow the appearance of things, and 
to apprehend the changeable and the many, they were forced to 
confess that we are unable fully to comprehend the divine truth 
in its reality, although we may rightly apprehend a few general 
principles. Nevertheless, to suppose, in conformity with human 
thought, that there is actually both a plurality and a change, would 
be but a delusion of the senses. While, on the other hand, we 
must acknowledge, that in all that appears to us as manifold and 
changeable, including all particular thought as evolved in the 
mind, the Godlike is present, unperceived indeed by human 
blindness, and become, as it were beneath a veil, indistinguishable. 

We may make this conception more intelligible if we recall 
the mathematical tendency of the whole of this school. Their 
knowledge of Physics was regarded as contingent—delusive. 
Their knowledge of Mathematics eternal—self-evident. Par¬ 
menides was thus led by Xenophanes on the one hand, and Dio- 
choetes on the other, to the conviction of the duality of human 
thought. His Eeason, i. e. the Pythagorean logic, taught him 
that there is naught existing but The One (which he did not, 
with Xenophanes, call God; he called it Being). His Sense, on 
the other hand, taught him that there were Many Things, be¬ 
cause of his manifold sensuous impressions. Hence he main¬ 
tained two Causes and two Principles: the one to satisfy the 
Reason; the other to accord with the explanations of Sense. 
His work on “Nature” was therefore divided into two parts: in 
the first is expounded the absolute Truth, as Eeason proclaims 
it; in the second, human Opinion, accustomed to 

“Follow the rash eye, and ears with singing sounds confused, and tongue,” 

which is but a mere seeming (<io^a, appearance): nevertheless 



PARMENIDES. 


51 


there is a cause of this seeming; there is also a principle, conse¬ 
quently there is a doctrine appropriate to it. 

It must not be imagined, that Parmenides had a mere vague 
and general notion of the uncertainty of human knowledge. He 
maintained that thought was delusive because dependent upon 
organization. He had as distinct a conception of this celebrated 
theory as any of his successors, as may be seen in the passage 
preserved by Aristotle in the 5th chapter of the 4th book of his 
Metaphysics , where, speaking of the materialism of Democritus, 
in whose system sensation was thought, he adds, that others have 
shared this opinion, and proceeds thus: “Empedocles affirms, 
that a change in our condition (rrjv sgiv) causes a change in 
our thought: 

“ ‘Thought grows in men according to the impression of the moment;’* 

and, in another passage, he says : 

“ ‘ It is always according to the changes which take place in men 
That there is change in their thoughts.’ ” 

Parmenides expresses himself in the same style: 

“ Such as to each man is the nature of his many-jointed limbs, 

Such also is the intelligence of each man ; for it is 
The nature of limbs (organization) which thinketh in men, 

Both in one and in all; for the highest degree of organization 
gives the highest degree of thought.”f 

Now t , as thought was dependent on organization, and as each 


* Tlpdg iraptbv yap prjng at^trai avOp&noioi. 

t The last sentence, “for the highest degree of organization gives the 
highest degree of thought,” is a translation which, dilfering from that of 
every other we have seen, and being, as we believe, of some importance in 
the interpretation of Parmenides’ system, it is necessary to state at full our 
reasons. Here is the origina. of the verses in the text: 

'Slg yap tKaarag Kpamv peXtwv TroXvicdpirruv, 

TtSf v6og avOpd)iTQi<ri iraptorriKtv. To yap aird 
"BcTtv Snip (ppovfci pcXiwv <pvais dvdpunroicriy 
Kut naotv, ku'i navri' rd yap irXiov itrri vdrj/ia. 

The last sentence Bitter translates— 

“For thought is the fulness.” 

Objecting to Hegel’s version of rh T Xiov. “the most.” and to tfcat of Brandis, 



THE KLEATICS. 


organization differed in degree from every other, so would the 
opinions of men differ. If thought be sensation, it requires but 
little reflection to show, that, as sensations from the same object 
differ according to the senses of different persons, and indeed 
differ at different times with the same person, therefore one 
opinion is not more true than another, and all are equally false. 
But Reason is the same in all men: that alone is the fountain of 
certain knowledge. All thought derived from sense is but a 


“ the mightier,” Ritter says the meaning is “ the full.” But we shall then 
want an interpretation of “ the full.” What is it? He elsewhere slightly 
alters the phrase thus : 

“ The fulness of all being is thought.” 

We speak with submission, but it appears to us that Ritter’s assertion re¬ 
specting to jrAt ov meaning “the full,” or “ the fulness,” is unwarrantable. 
The ordinary meaning is certainly “ the more” or “ the most,” and hence 
used occasionally to signify perfection, as in Theocritus: 

Kai ras (iuKoXucas iiri r<) 7tA tov Ikco pdxras. — Idy . i. 20. 

When Parmenides, therefore, uses the phrase rb T:\tov fori vdripa, he seems to 
us to have the ordinary meaning in view ; he speaks of rb irXfov as a necessary 
consequence of the iroXvicdpirros. Man has many-jointed limbs, ergo many 
sensations; if he had more limbs he would have more sensations ; the high¬ 
est degree of organization gives the highest degree of thought. This ex¬ 
planation is in conformity with what Aristotle says on introducing the pas¬ 
sage ; is in conformity with the line immediately preceding: 

v B<rrtv 6irep <Ppovtei peXtuiv tyvais dpOpivnoun ’ 

is In conformity with the explanation of the scholiast Asclepias, to nXfov fori 
ydri/ia, irpoaylyverat ik rris rrArovoj uiadtjaeus Kai aKpifitaripas ; and, finally, is in 
conformity with the opinion attributed to Parmenides by Plutarch, that 
“ sentir et penser ne lui paraissaient choses distinctes, ni entre eiles ni do 
l’organisation.” 1 

It is on this account we reject the reading of iro\vn\ayKT(av, “ far-wander- 
ing,” in place of 7roXtoca>7r™v, “ many-jointed,” suggested by Karsten. The 
change is arbitrary and for the worse; iroXvnXdyKrwv having reference only to 
the feet, whereas the simile in Parmenides is meant to apply to the whole 
man. 

The meaning of the verses is, therefore, that the intelligence of man is 
formed according to his many-jointed frame, i. e. dependent on his organ¬ 
ization. 


i Ch. Iicnonvier, Manueo de la Philosophie Ancienne, i. 152, who cites Plutarch, 
Opin. des Philos, iv. 5. 





PARMENIDES. 


53 


seeming (Joga); but thought derived from Reason is absolutely 
true. Hence his antithesis to £ofa is always tfltfrig, faith. 

This is the central point in his system. He wa3 thereby ena¬ 
bled to avert absolute skepticism, and at the same time to admit 
the uncertainty of ordinary knowledge. He had therefore two 
distinct doctrines, each proportioned to the faculty adapted to it. 
One doctrine, of Absolute Knowledge (Metaphysics, jasnx rot 
cpocTixa), with which the faculty of pure Reason was concerned, 
a doctrine called in the language of that day, the “ science of 
Being.” The other doctrine, of Relative Knowledge, or Opinion 
(Physics, roc qoutfuta), with which the faculty of Intelligence, or 
Thought, derived from Sense, was concerned, and which may be 
called the Science of Appearance. 

On the science of Being, Parmenides did not differ much from 
his predecessors, Xenophanes and Pythagoras. He taught that 
there was but one Being; non-Being was impossible. The latter 
assertion amounts to saying that non-existence cannot exist; a 
position which may appear extremely trivial to the reader not 
versed in metaphysical speculations; but which we would not 
have him despise, inasmuch as it is a valuable piece of evidence 
respecting the march of human opinion. It is only one of the 
many illustrations of the tendency to attribute positive qualities 
to words, as if they were things, and not simply marks of things; 
a tendency admirably exposed by James Mill, and subsequently 
by his son.* It was this tendency which so greatly puzzled the 
early thiukers, who, when they said that “ a thing is not,” be¬ 
lieved that they nevertheless predicated existence, viz. the ex¬ 
istence of non-existence. A thing is, and a thing is not; these 


* “ Many volumes might be filled with the frivolous speculations concern* 
ing the nature of Being (r<J liv, ovma, Em, Entitas, Essentia, and the like), 
which have arisen from overlooking this double meaning of the words to be , 
from supposing that when it signifies to exist, and when it signifies to be soma 
specified thing, as to be a man, to be Socrates, to be seen, to be a phantom, or 
even to be a nonentity, it must still at the bottom answer to the same idea; 
and that a meaning must be found for it which shall suit all these cases.”— 
John Mill, System of Logic, i. 4 , first ed. 



51 


THE ELEATICS. 


two assertions seemed to be affirmations of two different states 01 
existence; an error from which, under some shape or other, later 
thinkers have not always been free. 

Parmenides, however, though affirming that Being alone ex¬ 
isted and that non-Being was impossible, did not see the real 
ground of the sophism. He argued that Non-Being could not be, 
because Nothing can come out of Nothing (as Xenophanes taught 
him); if therefore Being existed, it must embrace all existence. 

Hence he concluded that The One was all Existence, identical, 
unique, neither born nor dying, neither moving nor changing. It 
was a bold step to postulate the finity of the One, Xenophanes 
having declared it to be necessarily infinite. But there is abund¬ 
ant evidence to prove that Parmenides regarded The One as finite. 
Aristotle speaks of it as the distinction between Parmenides and 
Melissus: “ The unity of Parmenides was a rational unity (rou 
xa.ru \6yov sv 6s) ; that of Melissus was a material unity (rou xa.ru 
rfy uXtjv). Hence the former said that The One was finite 
(flTtfspao'pivov), but the latter said it was infinite (airgipov).” 
From which it appears .that the ancients conceived the Rational 
unity as limited by itself; a conception it is difficult for us to 
understand. Probably it was because they held The One to be 
spherical: all the parts being equal: having neither beginning, 
middle, nor end : and yet self-limited. 

The conception of the identity of thought and existence is ex¬ 
pressed in some remarkable verses by Parmenides, of which, as a 
very different interpretation has been drawn from them, we shall 
give a literal translation : 

“ Thought is the same thing as the cause of thought: 

For without the thing in which it is announced 

You cannot find the thought; for there is nothing, nor shall be— 

Except the existing.” 

Now, as the only Existence was The One, it follows that The 
One and Thought are identical; a conclusion which by no means 
contradicts the opinion before noticed of the identity of human 
thought and sensation, both of these being merely transitory 
modes of Existence. 


ZENO OF ELEA. 


55 


Respecting the second or physical doctrine of Parmenides, we 
may briefly say that, believing it necessary to give a science of 
Appearances, he sketched out a programme according to the 
principles reigning in his day. He denied motion in the abstract, 
but admitted that according to appearance there was motion. 

Parmenides represents the logical and more rigorous side of 
the doctrine of Xenophanes, from which the physical element is 
almost banished, by being condemned to the region of uncer¬ 
tain Sense, Knowledge. The ideal element alone was really 
nourished by the speculations of Parmenides. Although he pre¬ 
served himself from skepticism, as we saw, nevertheless the 
tendency of his doctrine was to forward skepticism. In his expo¬ 
sition of the uncertainty of knowledge, he retained a saving 
clause,—that, namely, of the certainty of Reason. It only re¬ 
mained for successors to apply the same skepticism to the ideas 
of Reason, and Pyrrhonism was complete. 

§ IY. Zeno of Elea. 

Zeno, by Plato called the Palamedes of Elea, must not be con¬ 
founded with Zeno the Stoic. He was on all accounts one of the 
most distinguished of the ancient philosophers; as great in his 
actions as in his works; and remarkable in each for a strong, im¬ 
petuous, disinterested spirit. Born at Elea about the 70th Olym¬ 
piad (b. c. 500), he became the pupil of Parmenides, and, as some 
say, his adopted son. 

The first period of his life was spent in the calm solitudes of 
study. From his beloved friend and master he had learned to 
appreciate the superiority of intellectual pleasures—the only 
pleasures that do not satiate. From him also he had learned to 
despise the splendors of rank and fortune, without becoming mis¬ 
anthropical or egoistical. He worked for the benefit of his fellow- 
men, but declined the recompense of rank, or worldly honors, 
with which they would have repaid those labors. His recom¬ 
pense was the voice of his own heart, beating calmly in the 
consciousness of its integrity. The absence of ambition in so 


56 


THE ELEATICS. 


intrepid and exalted a mind, might well have been the wonder* 
ment of antiquity; for it was no skeptical indifference, no disdain 
for the opinions of his fellow-men, which made him shun office. 
He was a delicate no less than an impetuous man, extremely 
sensitive to praise and blame; as may be seen in his admirable 
reply to one who asked him why he was so hurt by blame : “ If 
the blame of my fellow-citizens did not cause me pain, their ap¬ 
probation would not cause me pleasure.” In timid minds, 
shrinking from the coarse ridicule of fools and knaves, this sensi¬ 
tiveness is fatal; but in those brave spirits who fear nothing but 
their own consciences, and who accept no approbation but such 
as their consciences can ratify, this sensitiveness lies at the root 
of much heroism and noble endeavor. One of those men was 
Zeno. His life was a battle, but the battle was for Truth; it 
ended tragically, but it was not fought in vain. 

Perhaps of all his moral qualities his patriotism has been the 
most renowned. He lived at the period of Liberty’s awakening, 
when Greece was everywhere enfranchising herself, everywhere 
loosening the Persian yoke, and endeavoring to found national in¬ 
stitutions on Liberty. In the general effervescence and enthusiasm 
Zeno was not cold. His political activity we have no means of 
judging; but we learn that it was great and beneficial. Elea was 
but a small colony; but Zeno preferred it to the magnificence of 
Athens, whose luxurious, restless, quibbling, frivolous, passionate, 
and unprincipled citizens he contrasted with the provincial modesty 
and honesty of Elea. He did, however, occasionally visit Athens, 
and there promulgated the doctrines of his master, as we see by 
the opening of Plato’s dialogue, the Parmenides. There he 
taught Pericles. 

On the occasion of his last return to Elea, he found it had 
fallen into the hands of the tyrant Nearchus (or Diomedon or 
Demylos: the name is differently given by ancient writers). He, 
of course, conspired against him, failed in his project, and was 
captured. It was then, as Cicero observes, that he proved the 
excellence of his master’s doctrines, and proved that a count- 


ZENO OF ELEA. 


57 


geous soul fears only that which is base, and that fear and pain 
are for women and children, or men who have feminine hearts. 
When Nearchus interrogated him as to his accomplices, he threw 
the tyrant into an agony of doubt and fear by naming all the 
courtiers: a master-stroke of audacity, and in those days not dis¬ 
creditable. Having thus terrified his accuser, he turned to the 
spectators, and exclaiming, “ If you can consent to be slaves from 
fear of what you see me now suffer, I can only wonder at your 
cowardice.” So saying, he bit his tongue off, and spat it in the 
face of the tyrant. The people were so roused that they fell upon 
Nearchus and slew him. 

There are considerable variations in the accounts of this story 
by ancient writers, but all agree in the main narrative given 
above. Some say that Zeno was pounded to death in a huge 
mortar. We have no trustworthy account of his death. 

As a philosopher, Zeno’s merits are peculiar. lie was the in¬ 
ventor of that logic so celebrated as Dialectics. This, which, in 
the hands of Socrates and Plato, became a powerful weapon of 
offence, is, by the universal consent of antiquity, ascribed to Zeno. 
It may be defined as “ A refutation of error by the reductio ad 
absurdum as a means of establishing the truth.” The truth to 
be established in Zeno’s case was the system of Parmenides; we 
must not, therefore, seek in his arguments for any novelty beyond 
the mere exercise of dialectical subtlety. He brought nothing 
new to the system; but he invented a great method of polemical 
exposition. The system had been conceived by Xenophanes; 
precision had been given to it by Parmenides; and there only 
remained for Zeno the task of fighting for and defending it; 
which task he admirably fulfilled. “ The destiny of Zeno was 
altogether polemical. Hence, in the external world, the impet¬ 
uous existence and tragical end of the patriot; and, in the 
internal world, the w’orld of thought, the laborious character of 
Dialectician.” * 

It was this fighter’s destiny which caused him to perfect the 


* Cousin, FrogmensJPhilosopMques, art. Zenon d?El'ee. 



58 


THE ELEATICS. 


art of offence and defence. He very naturally wrote in prose, 
of which he set the first example: for, as the wild and turbulent 
enthusiasm of Xenophanes would instinctively express itself in 
poetry, so would the argumentative subtlety of Zeno naturally 
express itself in prose. The great Rhapsodist wandered from 
city to city, intent upon earnest and startling enunciation of the 
mighty thoughts stirring confusedly within him; the great Lo¬ 
gician was more intent upon a convincing exposition of the 
futility of the arguments alleged against his system, than upon 
any propagaude of the system itself; for he held that the truth 
must be accepted when once error is exposed. “Antiquity,” 
says M. Cousin, “ attests that he wrote not poems, like Xeno¬ 
phanes and Parmenides, but treatises, and treatises of an emi¬ 
nently prosaic character: that is to say, refutations.” 

The reason of this may be easily guessed. Coming as a young 
man to Athens, to preach the doctrine of Parmenides, he must 
have been startled at the opposition which that doctrine met 
with from the subtle, quick-witted, and empirical Athenians, 
who had already erected the Ionian philosophy into the reigning 
doctrine. Zeno, no doubt, was at first stunned by the noisy ob¬ 
jections which on all sides surrounded him; but, being also one 
of the keenest of wits, and one of the readiest, he would soon 
have recovered his balance, and in turn assailed his assailers. 
Instead of teaching dogmatically, he began to teach dialectically. 
Instead of resting in the domain of pure science, and expounding 
the ideas of Reason, he descended upon the ground occupied by 
his adversaries—the ground of daily experience and sense-knowl¬ 
edge—and turning their ridicule upon, themselves, forced them 
to admit that it was more easy to conceive The Many as a pro¬ 
duce of The One, than to conceive The One on the assumption 
of the existing Many. 

“ The polemical method entirely disconcerted the partisans of 
the Ionian philosophy,” says M. Cousin, “ and excited a lively 
curiosity and interest for the doctrines of the Italian (Pytha¬ 
gorean) school; and thus was sown, in the capital of Greek civili- 


ZENO OF ELEA. 


59 


ration, the fruitful germ of a higher development of philos 
ophy.” 

Plato has succinctly characterized the difference between Par¬ 
menides and Zeno by saying, that the master established the ex¬ 
istence of The One, and the disciple proved the non-existence of 
The Many. 

When he argued that there was but One thing really existing, 
all the others being only modifications or appearances of that 
One, he did not deny that there were many appearances , he only 
denied that these appearances were real existences. So, in like 
manner, he denied motion, but not the appearance of motion. 
Diogenes the Cynic, who, to refute his arguments against motion, 
rose and walked, entirely mistook the argument; his walking 
was no more a refutation of Zeno, than Dr. Johnson’s kicking a 
stone was a refutation of Berkeley’s denial of matter. Zeno 
would have answered : Yery true; you walk: according to 
Opinion (to 8o%a<fr6v) you are in motion ; but according to 
Reason you are at rest. What you call motion is but the name 
given to a series of similar conditions, each of which, sejDarately 
considered, is rest. Thus, every object filling space equal to its 
bulk is necessarily at rest in that space; motion from one spot 
to another is but a name given to the sum-total of all these in¬ 
termediate spaces in which the object at each moment is at rest. 
Take the illustration of the circle: a circle is composed of a 
number of individual points, or straight lines; not one of these 
lines can individually be called a circle; but all these lines, con¬ 
sidered as a totality, have one general name given them, viz. a 
circle. In the same way, in each individual point of space, the 
object is at rest; the sum-total of a number of these states of 
rest is called motion. 

The original fallacy is in the supposition that Motion is a thing 
superadded, whereas, as Zeno clearly saw, it is only a condition. 
Iti a falling stone there is not the “ stone” and a thing called 
“ motionotherwise there would be also another thing called 
‘‘rest.” But both motion and rest are names given to express 


60 


THE ELEATICS. 


conditions of the stone. Even rest is a positive exertion of force 
Rest is force resistant, and Motion is force triumphant. It follows 
that matter is always in motion; which amounts to the same as 
Zeno’s saying, there is no such thing as motion. 

The other arguments of Zeno against the possibility of Motion 
(and he maintained four, the third of which we have above ex¬ 
plained,) are given by Aristotle; but they seem more like the in¬ 
genious puzzles of dialectical subtlety than the real arguments 
of an earnest man. It has, therefore, been asserted, that they 
were only brought forward to ridicule the unskilfulness of his 
adversaries. We must not, however, be hasty in rescuing Zeno 
from his own logical net, into which he may have fallen as easily 
as others. Greater men than he have been the dupes of their 
own verbal distinctions. 

Here are his two first arguments: 

1. Motion is impossible, because before that which is in mo¬ 
tion can reach the end, it must reach the middle point; but this 
middle point then becomes the end, and the same objection ap¬ 
plies to it—since to reach it the object in motion must traverse 
a middle point; and so on ad infinitum , seeing that matter is in¬ 
finitely divisible. Thus, if a stone be cast four paces, before 
it can reach the fourth it must reach the second; the second 
then becomes the end, and the first pace the middle ; but before 
the object can reach the first pace, it must reach the half of the 
first pace, and before the half it must reach the half of that half; 
and so on ad infinitum . 

2. This is his famous Achilles puzzle. We give both the state¬ 
ment and refutation as we find it in Mill’s Logic.(u. 453). 

The argument is, let Achilles run ten times as fast as a tortoise, 
yet, if the tortoise has the start, Achilles will never overtake him; 
for, suppose them to be at first separated by an interval of a thou¬ 
sand feet; when Achilles has run these thousand feet, the tortoise 
will have run a hundred, and when Achilles has run those hun 
dred, the tortoise will have got on ten, and so on forever: there 
fore Achilles may run forever without overtaking the tortoise. 


ZENO OF ELEA. 


61 


Now the “forever” in the conclusion means, for any length of 
time that can be supposed; but in the premises, “ forever” does 
not mean any length of time—it means any number of subdivisions 
of time. It means that we may divide a thousand feet by ten, 
and that quotient again by ten, and so on as often as we please; 
that there never need be an end to the subdivisions of the dis¬ 
tance, nor, consequently, to those of the time in which it is per- 
ormed. But an unlimited number of subdivisions may be made 
of that which is itself limited. The argument proves no other 
infinity of duration than may be embraced within five minutes. 
As long as the five minutes are not expired, what remains of 
them may be divided by ten, and again by ten, as often as we 
like, which is perfectly compatible with their being only five 
minutes altogether. It proves, in short, that to pass through 
this finite space requires a time which is infinitely divisible , but 
not an infinite time; the confounding of which distinction Hobbes 
had already seen to be the gist of the fallacy. 

Although the credit of seeing the ground of the fallacy is 
given by Mill to Hobbes, we must also observe' that Aristotle had 
clearly seen it in the same light. His answer to Zeno, which 
Bayle thinks “ pitiable,” was, that a foot of space being only po¬ 
tentially infinite , but actually finite , it could be easily traversed 
in a finite time. 

We have no space to follow Zeno in his various arguments 
against the existence of a multitude of things. His position may 
be briefly summed up thus:—There is but one Being existing, 
necessarily indivisible and infinite. To suppose that The One 
is divisible, is to suppose it finite. If divisible, it must be infi¬ 
nitely divisible. But, suppose two things to exist, then there 
must necessarily be an interval between those two; something 
separating and limiting them. What is that something? It 
is some other thing. But then, if not the same thing, it also 
must be separated and limited; and so on ad infinitum. Thus 
only One thing can exist as the substratum for all manifold ap¬ 
pearances. 


r 







62 


THE ELEATICS. 


Zeno closes the second great line of independent inquiry, 
which, opened by Anaximander, and continued by Pythagoras, 
Xenophanes, and Parmenides, we may characterize as the Math¬ 
ematical or Absolute system. Its opposition to the Ionian, Phy¬ 
sical or Empirical system was radical and constant. But, up to 
the coming of Zeno, these two systems had been developed al¬ 
most in parallel lines, so little influence did they exert upon each 
other. The two systems clashed together on the arrival of Zeno 
at Athens. The result of the conflict was the creation of a new 
method—Dialectics. This method created the Sophists and the 
Skeptics. It also greatly influenced all succeeding schools, and 
may be said to have constituted one great peculiarity of Socrates 
and Plato, as will be shown. 

We must, however, previously trace the intermediate steps 
which philosophy took, before the crisis of Sophistry, which pre¬ 
ceded the era of Socrates. 


SECOND EPOCH. 


SPECULATIONS ON THE CREATION OF THE UNIVERSE, AND 
ON THE ORIGIN OF KNOWLEDGE. 


CHAPTER I. 

§ I. Heraclitus. 

“ Life is a comedy to those who think, a tragedy to those 
who feel.” This, Horace Walpole’s epigram, may be applied to 
Democritus and Heraclitus, celebrated throughout antiquity as 
the laughing and the weeping philosophers: 

“One pitied, one condemn’d the woeful times; 

One laugh’d at follies, and one wept o’er crimes.” 

Modern criticism has indeed pronounced both these character¬ 
istics to be fabulous; but fables themselves are often only exag¬ 
gerations of truth, and there must have been something in each 
of these philosophers which formed the nucleus round which the 
fables grew. Of Heraclitus it has been well said, “ The vulgar 
notion of him as the crying philosopher must not be wholly dis¬ 
carded, as if it meant nothing, or had no connection with the 
history of his speculations. The thoughts which came forth in 
his system are like fragments torn from his own personal being, 
and not torn from it without such an effort and violence as must 
needs have drawn a sigh from the sufferer. If Anaximenes dis¬ 
covered that he had within him a power and principle which 
ruled over all the acts and functions of his bodily frame, Herac- 



64 


HERACLITUS. 


litus found that there was a life within him which he could not 
call his own, and yet it was, in the very highest sense, himself,\ 
so that without it he would have been a poor, helpless, isolated 
creature;—a universal life, which connected him with his fellow- 
men,—with the absolute source and original fountain of life.”* 

Heraclitus was the son of Blyson, and was born at Ephesus, 
about the 69th Olympiad (b. c. 503). Of a haughty, melan¬ 
choly temper, he refused the supreme magistracy which his fel¬ 
low-citizens offered him, on account, according to Diogenes 
Laertius, of their dissolute morals; but as he declined the offer 
in favor of his brother, we are disposed to think his rejection was 
grounded on some other cause. Is not his rejection of magistracy 
in perfect keeping with what else we know of him ? For in¬ 
stance : playing with some children near the temple of Diana, 
he answered those who expressed surprise at seeing him thus 
occupied, “ Is it not better to play with children, than to share 
with you the administration of affairs?” The contempt which 
pierces through this reply, and which subsequently grew into 
confirmed misanthropy, may have been the result of morbid 
meditation, rather than of virtuous scorn. Was it because the 
citizens were corrupt, that he refused to exert himself to make 
them virtuous ? Was it because the citizens were corrupt, that 
he retired to the mountains, and there lived on herbs and roots, 
like an ascetic ? If Ephesus was dissolute, was there not the rest 
of Greece for him to make a home of? lie fled to the moun¬ 
tains, that he might there, in secret, prey on his own heart. He 
was a misanthrope, and misanthropy is madness, not virtuous in¬ 
dignation ; misanthropy issues from the morbid consciousness of 
self, not from the sorrowful opinion formed of others. The aim 
of his life had been to explore the depths of his own nature. 
This has been the aim of all ascetics, as of all philosophers : but 
in the former it is morbid anatomy; in the latter it is science. 

The contemptuous letter in which he declined the courteous 


* Maurice, Moral and Metaphysical Philosophy. 








HERACLITUS. 


65 


invitation of Darius to spend some time at his court, will best 
explain his character: 

“ Heraclitus of Ephesus to the King Darius, son of Hystaspes, 
health ! 

“ All men depart from the paths of truth and justice. They 
have no attachment of any kind but avarice; they only aspire to 
a vain-glory with the obstinacy of folly. As for me, I know not 
malice; I am the enemy of no one. I utterly despise the vanity 
of courts, and never will place my foot on Persian ground. Con¬ 
tent with little, I live as I please.” 

Misanthropy was the nucleus of the fable of Heraclitus as a 
weeping philosopher, who refused the magistracy because the 
citizens were corrupt. The story of his attempting to cure him¬ 
self of a dropsy by throwing himself on a dunghill, hoping that 
the heat would cause the water within him to evaporate, is apoc¬ 
ryphal. 

The Philosophy of Heraclitus was, and is, the subject of dis¬ 
pute. He expressed himself in such enigmatical terms, that he 
was called “ the Obscure.” A few fragments have been handed 
down to us.* From these it w T ould be vain to hope that a con¬ 
sistent system could be evolved; but from them, and from other 
sources, we may gather the general tendency of his doctrines. 

The tradition which assigns him Xenophanes as a teacher, is 
borne out by the evident relation of their systems. Heraclitus is 
somewhat more Ionian than Xenophanes: that is to say, in him 
the physical explanation of the universe is more prominent. At 
the same time, Heraclitus is neither frankly Ionian nor Italian; 
he wavers between the two. The pupil of Xenophanes would 
naturally regard human knowledge as a mist of error, through 
which the sunlight only gleamed at intervals. But the inheritor 
of the Ionian doctrines would not adopt the conclusion of the 


* Schleiermacher has collected, and endeavored to interpret them, in 
Wolf and Bnttmann’s Museum, der Alterthumswi$sen$cliaften,\o\. i. part iii. 




66 


HERACLITUS. 


Mathematical school, namely, that the cause of this uncertainty 
of knowledge is the uncertainty of sensuous impressions; and 
that consequently Reason is the only fountain of truth. Herac¬ 
litus was not mathematician enough for such a doctrine: he 
was led to maintain a doctrine directly opposed to it. He main¬ 
tained that the senses are the sources of all true knowledge, for 
they drink in the universal intelligence. The senses deceive 
only when they belong to barbarian souls: in other words, the 
ill-educated sense gives false impressions, the rightly-educated 
sense gives truth. Whatever is common is true; whatever is 
remote from the common, i. e. the exceptional, is false. The 
True is the Unhidden.* Those whose senses are open to receive 
the Unhidden, the Universal, attain truth. 

As if to mark the distinction between himself and Xenophanes 
more forcibly, he says: “Inhaling through the breath the Uni¬ 
versal Ether, which is Divine Reason, we become conscious. In 
sleep we are unconscious, but on waking we again become intel¬ 
ligent ; for in sleep, when the organs of sense are closed, the 
mind within is shut out from all sympathy with the surrounding 
ether, the universal Reason; and the only connecting medium is 
the breath, as it were a root, and by this separation the mind 
loses the power of recollection it before possessed. Nevertheless 
on awakening the mind repairs its memory through the senses, 
as it were through inlets; and thus, coming into contact with 
the surrounding ether, it resumes its intelligence. As fuel when 
brought near the fire is altered and becomes fiery, but on being 
removed again becomes quickly extinguished ; so too the portion 
of the all-embracing which sojourns in our body becomes more 
irrational when separated from it; but on the restoration of this 
connection, through its many pores or inlets, it again becomes 
similar to the whole.” 

Can any thing be more opposed to the Eleatic doctrine ? That 
system rests on the certitude of pure Reason; this declares that 

* rb fiti \rj6ov. Thi8 kind of play upon words is very character 

istic of metaphysical thinkers in all ages. 



HERACLITUS. 


67 


Reason left to itself, i. e. the mind when it is not nourished by 
the senses, can have no true knowledge. The one system is ex¬ 
clusively rational, the other exclusively material; but both are 
pantheistical, for in both it is the universal Intelligence which 
becomes conscious in man,—a conception pushed to its ultimate 
limits by Hegel. Accordingly Hegel declares that there is not 
a single point in the Logic of Heraclitus which he, Hegel, has 
not developed in his Logic. 

The reader will remark how in Heraclitus, as in Parmenides, 
there is opened the great question which for so long agitated the 
schools, and which still agitates them,—the question respecting 
the origin of our ideas. He will also remark how the two great 
parties, into which thinkers have divided themselves on the ques¬ 
tion, are typified in these two early thinkers. In Parmenides 
the idealist school, with its contempt of sense; in Heraclitus the 
materialist school, with its contempt of every thing not derived 
from sensation. 

With Xenophanes, Heraclitus agreed in denouncing the per¬ 
petual delusion which reigned in the mind of man; but he placed 
the cause of that delusion in the imperfection of human Reason, 
not, as Xenophanes had done, in the imperfection of Sense. He 
thought that man had too little of the Divine Ether (soul) within 
him. Xenophanes thought that the senses clouded the intellec¬ 
tual vision. The one counselled man to let the Universal mirror 
itself in his soul through the senses; the other counselled him to 
shut himself up within himself, to disregard the senses, and to 
commune only with ideas. 

It seems strange that so palpable a contradiction between two 
doctrines should ever have been overlooked. Yet such is the 
fact. Heraclitus is said to have regarded the world of Sense as 
a perpetual delusion: and this is said in the very latest and not 
the least intelligent of Histories, to say nothing of former works. 
Whence this opinion ? Simply from the admitted skepticism of 
both Heraclitus and Xenophanes with respect to Phenomena 
(appearances). It is true they both denied the certainty of 


6S 


HERACLITUS. 


human knowledge, but the } 7 denied this on different grounds. 
“ Man has no certain knowledge,” said Heraclitus, “ but God has; 
and vain man learns from God just as the boy from the man.” 
In his conception, human intelligence was but a portion of the 
Universal Intelligence; but a part can never be otherwise than 
imperfect. Hence it is that the opinion of all mankind upon 
any subject (common sense) must be a nearer approximation to 
the truth than the opinion of any individual; because it is an 
accumulation of parts, making a nearer approach to the whole. 

While therefore he maintained the uncertainty of all knowl¬ 
edge, he also maintained its certainty. Its origin was Sense; 
being sensuous and individual, it was imperfect, because indi¬ 
vidual ; but it was true as far as it went. The ass, he scornfully 
said, prefers thistles to gold. To the ass gold is not so valuable 
as thistle. The ass is at once right and wrong. Man is equally 
right and wrong in all positive affirmations; for nothing truly 
is , about which a positive affirmation can be made. “ All is,” 
he said, “ and all is not; for though in truth it does come into 
being, yet it forthwith ceases to be.” 

We are here led to his celebrated doctrine of all things as a 
“ perpetual flux and reflux;” which Hegel declares to be an an¬ 
ticipation of his own celebrated dogma, Seyn und Nichtseyn ist 
dasselbe : “Being and Non-Being is the same.”* Heraclitus 
conceived the principle——of all things to be Fire. To 
him Fire was the type of spontaneous force and activity; not 
flame, which was only an intensity of Fire, but a warm, dry 
vapor—an Ether; this was the beginning. He savs: “ The 
world was made neither by Godf nor man; and it was, and is, 

* Much of the ridicule which this logical canon has excited, especially in 
England, has been prompted by the blindest misunderstanding. The laugh¬ 
ers, misled by verbal ambiguity, have understood Hegel to say that Exist¬ 
ence and Non-Existence was one and the same, as if by Nichtseyn he meant 
Nothing. He meant by Nothing No Thing— wo phenomenon. The position 
ls perhaps absurd, but it is not for metaphysicians to say so. 

t This is the translation given in Ritter : it is not however exact; ovte ns 
6cuiv is the original, i. e. “neither one of the Gods,” meaning of course one 
of the polytheistic Deities. 




HERACLITUS. 


GO 

and ever shall be, au ever-living fire in due measure self-enkin¬ 
dled and in due measure self-extinguished.” That this is but a 
modification of the Ionian system, the reader will at once discern. 
The Fire, which here stands as the semi-symbol of Life and In¬ 
telligence, because of its spontaneous activity, is but a modifica¬ 
tion of the Water of Thales and the Air of Anaximenes; more¬ 
over, it is only semi-symbolical. Those who accept it as a pure 
symbol overlook the other parts of the system. The system 
which proclaims the senses as the source of all knowledge neces¬ 
sarily attaches itself to a material element as the primary one. 
At the same time this very system is in one respect a deviation 
from the Ionian; in the distinction between sense-knowledge and 
reflective knowledge. Hence we placed Diogenes of Apollonia 
as the last of the pure Ionians; although chronologically he 
came some time after Heraclitus, and his doctrine is in many 
respects the same as that of Heraclitus. 

This Fire which is forever kindling into flame, and passing 
into smoke and ashes; this restless, changing flux of things 
which never are , but are ever becoming; this he proclaimed to 
be God, or the One. 

Take his beautiful illustration of a river: “No one has ever 
been twice on the same stream; for different waters are con¬ 
stantly flowing down; it dissipates its waters and gathers them 
again—it approaches and it recedes—it overflows and falls.” This 
is evidently but a statement of the flux and reflux, as in his 
aphorism that “ all is in motion; there is no rest or quietude.” 
Let us also add here what Ritter says: 

“ The notion of life implies that of alteration, which by the 
ancients was generally conceived as motion. The Universal 
Life is therefore an eternal motion, and therefore tends, as every 
motion must, towards some end, even though this end, in the 
course of the evolution of life, present itself to us as a mere 
transition to some ulterior end. Heraclitus on this ground sup¬ 
posed a certain longing to be inherent in Fire, to gratify which 
it constantly transformed itself into some determinate form of 


70 


ANAXAGORAS. 


being, without, however, any wish to maintain it, but in the 
mere desire of transmuting itself from one form into another. 
Therefore, to make worlds is Jove’s pastime.” 

He explained phenomena as the concurrence of opposite ten¬ 
dencies and efforts in the motion of the ever-living Fire, out of 
which results the most beautiful harmony. All is composed of 
contraries, so that the good is also evil, the living is dead, etc. 
The harmony of the world is one of conflicting impulses, like 
that of the lyre and the bow. The strife between opposite ten¬ 
dencies is the parent of all things: fo\s[xog iravruv fxsv irani) p 
srfri tfavruv 8s fiacfiXsijg, xui rovg [xsv Qsovg s’Ssigs roug 8s dvApurfovg, 
rovg [xsv SouXovg irfoiritfs rovg 8s sXsvQipovg. Nor is this simple met¬ 
aphor : the strife here spoken of is the splitting in two of that 
which is in essence one; the contradiction which necessarily lies 
between the particular and the general, the result and the force, 
Being and Non-Being. All life is change, and change is strife. 

Heraclitus was the first to proclaim the absolute vitality of 
Nature, the endless change of matter, the mutability and perish¬ 
ability of all individual things, in contrast with the eternal 
Being, the supreme Harmony whch rules over all. 

The view we have taken of his doctrines will at once explain 
the position in which we have placed them. He stands with one 
foot on the Ionian path, and with the other on the Italian; but 
his attempt is not to unite these two: his office is negative; he 
has to criticize both. 


§ II. Anaxagoras. 

Anaxagoras is generally said to have been born at Clazomense 
in Lydia, not far from Colophon. Inheriting from his family a 
splendid patrimony, he seemed born to figure in the State; but, 
like Parmenides, he disregarded all such external greatness, and 
placed his ambition elsewhere. Early in life, so early as his 
twentieth year, the passion for philosophy engrossed him. Like 
all young ambitious men, he looked with contempt upon the in¬ 
tellect exhibited in his native city. His soul panted for the 


ANAXAGORAS. 


71 


capital. The busy activity, and the growing importance ot 
Athens, solicited him. He yearned towards it, as the ambitious 
youth in a provincial town yearns for London; as all energy 
longs for a fitting theatre on which to play its part. 

lie came to Athens. It was a great and stirring epoch. The 
countless hosts of Persia had been scattered by a handful of 
resolute men. The political importance of Greece, and of 
Athens, the Queen of Greece, was growing to a climax. The 
Age of Pericles, one of the most glorious in the long annals of 
mankind, was dawning. The Poems of Homer formed the sub¬ 
ject of literary conversation, and of silent enjoyment. The early 
triumphs of JEschylus had created a Drama, such as still re¬ 
mains the wonder and delight of scholars and critics. The 
young Sophocles, that perfect flower of antique art, was then in 
his bloom, meditating on that Drama which he was hereafter to 
bring to perfection in the Antigone and the GEdipus Rex . The 
Ionian philosophy had found a home at Athens; and the young 
Anaxagoras shared his time with Homer and Anaximenes.* 
Philosophy soon obtained the supreme place in his affections. 
The mysteries of the universe tempted him. He yielded himself 
to the fascination, and declared that the aim and purpose of his 
life was to contemplate the heavens. All care for his affairs 
was given up. His estates ran to waste, whilst he was solving- 
problems. But the day he found himself a beggar, he exclaimed, 
“ To Philosophy I owe my worldly ruin, and my soul’s pros¬ 
perity.” He commenced teaching, and he had illustrious pupils 
in Pericles, Euripides, and Socrates. 

He was not long without paying the penalty of success. The 


* By this we no more intimate that he was a disciple of Anaximenes (as 
some historians assert) than that he was a friend of Homer. But in some 
such ambiguous phrase as that in the text, must the error of calling him the 
disciple of Anaximenes have arisen. Brucker’s own chronology is strangely 
at variance with his statement: for he places the birth of Anaximenes, 56th 
Olympiad; that of Anaxagoras, 70th Otympiad : thus making the master 
fifty-six years old at the birth of the pupil; and the pupil only became such 
in the middle of his life. 



72 


ANAXAGORAS. 


envy and uncharitableness of some, joined to the bigotry of 
others, caused an accusation of impiety to be brought against 
him. He was tried, and condemned to death, but owed the 
mitigation of his sentence into banishment, to the eloquence of 
his friend and pupil, Pericles. Some have supposed that the 
cause of his persecution was this very friendship of Pericles; 
and that the statesman was struck at through the unpopular 
philosopher. The supposition is gratuitous, and belongs rather 
to the ingenuity of modern scholarship, than to the sober facts 
of history. In the persecution of Anaxagoras there is nothing 
but what was very natural; it occurred afterwards in the case of 
Socrates, and it has subsequently occurred a thousand times in 
the history of mankind, as the simple effect of outraged con¬ 
victions. Anaxagoras attacked the religion of his time : he was 
tried and condemned for his temerity. 

After his banishment he resided in Lampsacus, and there pre¬ 
served tranquillity of mind until his death. “ It is not I who 
have lost the Athenians; it is the Athenians who have lost me,” 
was his proud reflection. He continued his studies, and was 
highly respected by the citizens, who, wishing to pay some mark 
of esteem to his memory, asked him on his death-bed in what 
manner they could do so. He begged that the day of his death 
might be annually kept as a holiday in all the schools of Lamp¬ 
sacus. For centuries this request was fulfilled. He died in his 
seventy-third year. A tomb was erected to him in the city, with 
this inscription: 

“ This tomb great Anaxagoras confines, 

Whose mind explored the heavenly paths of Truth.” 

His philosophy contains so many contradictory principles, or 
perhaps it would be more correct to say, so many contradictory 
principles are attributed to him, that it would be vain to attempt 
a systematic view of them. We shall, as usual, confine ourselves 
to leading doctrines. 

On the great subject of the origin and certainty of our knowl¬ 
edge, he differed from Xenophanes and Heraclitus. He thought, 


ANAXAGORAS. 


73 


with the former, that all sense-knowledge is delusive; and, with 
the latter, that all knowledge comes through the senses. Here is 
a double skepticism brought into play. It has usually been held 
that these two opinions contradict each other; that he could not 
have maintained both. Yet both opinions are tenable. His reason 
for denying certainty to the senses, was the incapacity of distin¬ 
guishing all the real objective elements of which things are made. 
Thus the eye discerns a complex mass which we call a flower; but 
discerns nothing of that of wlucli the flower is composed. In other 
words, the senses perceive phenomena , but do not, and cannot ob¬ 
serve noumena* —an anticipation of the greatest discovery of 
modern psychology, though seen dimly and confusedly by Anax¬ 
agoras. Perhaps the most convincing proof of his having so con¬ 
ceived knowledge is in the passage quoted by Aristotle: “ Things 
are to each according as they seem to him” (0V1 roiavra avroTg 
rot ov-ra, ota ctv utfoXa/owa’i). "What is this but the assertion of all 
knowledge being confined to phenomena ? It is further strength¬ 
ened by the passage in Sextus Empiricus, that “ phenomena are 
the criteria of our knowledge of things beyond sense,” i. e ., things 
inevident are evident in phenomena (t% <twv aSi jXwv xa<raX?j^sw£, 
<ra <paivop,sva). 

It must not, however, be concluded from the above, that A \nax- 
agoras regarded sense as the sole origin of knowledge. He held 
that the Reason (Xoyo?) was the regulating faculty of the mind, 
as Intelligence (vou^) was of the universe. The senses are accu¬ 
rate in their reports; but their reports are not accurate copies of 
Things. They reflect objects; but they reflect them as these 
objects appear to Sense. Reason has to control these impres¬ 
sions, to verify these reports. 


* Noumen&n, is the antithesis to Phenomenon , which means Appearance; 
Noumenon means the Substratum , or, to use the scholastic word, the Sub¬ 
stance. Thus, as matter is recognized by us only in its manifestations (phe¬ 
nomena), we may logically distinguish those manifestations from the thing 
manifested (noumenon). And the former will be the materia circa quam / 
the latter, the vnaUAa in qua. Noumenon is therefore equivalent to the Es¬ 
sence ; Phenomenon to the Manifestation. 



74 


ANAXAGORAS. 


Let us now apply this doctrine to the explanation of some of 
those apparently contradictory statements which have puzzled all 
the critics. For instance, Anaxagoras says that snow is not white 
but black, because the water of which it is composed is black. 
Now, in this he could not have meant that snow did not appear 
to our senses white ; his express doctrine of sense-knowledge for¬ 
bids such an interpretation. But reason told him that the Senses 
gave inaccurate reports; and, in this instance, Reason showed 
him how their report was contradictory, since the water was 
black, yet the snow white. Here, then, is the 'vyliole theory 
of knowledge exemplified : Sense asserting that snow is white ; 
Reflection asserting that snow being made from black water could 
not be white. He had another illustration—Take two liquids, 
white and black, and pour the one into the other drop by drop: 
the eye will be unable to discern the actual change as it is gradu¬ 
ally going on ; it will only discern it at certain marked intervals. 

Thus did he separate himself at once from Xenophanes and 
Heraclitus. From the former, because admitting Sense to be the 
only criterion of things, the only source of knowledge, he could 
not regard the Xo yog as the unfailing source of truth, but merely 
as the reflective power, whereby the reports of sense were con¬ 
trolled. From the latter, because reflection convinced him that 
the reports of the senses were subjectively true, but objectively 
false.* (Heraclitus maintained that the reports of the senses were 
alone certain.) Both Xenophanes and Heraclitus had principles 
of absolute certitude; the one proclaimed Reason, the other Sense, 
to be that principle. Anaxagoras annihilated the one by showing 
that the Reason was dependent on the senses for materials ; and 


* Subjective and objective are now almost naturalized : it may not be su¬ 
perfluous, nevertheless, to explain them. The subject mean 3 the “ Mind of 
the Thinker” (Ego), the object means the “Thing thought of” (Non-Ego). 
In the above passage “ the reports of the senses being subjectively true,” 
means that the senses truly inform us of their impressions; but these im¬ 
pressions are not at all like the actual objects (as may be shown by the broken 
appearance of a stick, half of which is dipped in water), and therefore tho 
reports are “objectively false.” 



ANAXAGORAS. 7 5 

lie annihilated the other by showing that the materials were fal¬ 
lacious. 

Having thus, not without considerable difficulty, brought his 
various opinions on human knowledge under one system, let us 
endeavor to do the same for his cosmology. The principle of his 
system is thus announced: “Wrongly do the Greeks suppose that 
aught begins or ceases to be ; for nothing comes into being or is 
destroyed ; but all is an aggregation or secretion of pre-existent 
things ; so that all becoming might more correctly be called be¬ 
coming-mixed, and all corruption becoming separate.” What is 
the thought here ? It is that instead of there being a Creation, 
there was only an arrangement; instead of one first element, there 
was an infinite number of elements. These elements are the 
celebrated homoeomerice: 

“ Ex aurique putat micis consistere posse 
Aurum, et de terris terrain concrescere parvis ; 

Ignibus ex ignem, humorem ex humoribus esse ; 

Caetera consimili fingit ratione putatque.”* 

This singular opinion which maintains that flesh is made of 
molecules of elementary flesh, and bones of elementary bones, 
and so forth, is intelligible when we remember his theory of 
knowledge. The Sense discerns elementary differences in matter, 
and reflection confirms the truth of this observation. If Nothing 
can proceed from Nothing, all things can be only an arrangement 
of existing things; but when in this Arrangement certain things 
are discovered to be radically distinguished from each other, gold 
from blood for example,—either the distinction observed by the 
Senses is altogether false, or else the things distinguished must 
be elements. But the first horn of the dilemma is avoided by 


* Lucretius, i. 839.— 

“ That gold from parts of the same nature rose, 

That earths do earth, fires fire, airs air compose, 

And so in nil things else alike to those.”■—C rkeoh. 

There seems to be good reason to believe that not, Anaxagoras, but Aristotle, 
was the originator of the word homoeomerice. See Ritter, i. 286. 



76 


ANAXAGORAS. 


the sensuous nature of all knowledge; if the Senses deceive us 
in this respect, and Reason does not indicate the deception, 
then is knowledge all a delusion; therefore, unless we adopt 
skepticism, we must abide by the testimony of the Senses, as to 
the distinction of things. But, having granted the distinction, 
we must grant that the things distinguished are elements ; if not, 
whence the distinction ? Nothing can come of Nothing; blood 
can only become blood, gold can only become gold, mix them 
how you will; if blood can become bone, then does bone become 
something out of nothing, for it was not bone before, and it is 
bone now. But, as blood can only be blood, and bone only be 
bone, whenever they are mingled it is a mingling of two ele¬ 
ments, liomoeomerice. 

In the beginning therefore there was the infinite composed of 
homoeomerice, or elementary seeds of infinite variety. So far 
from The All being The One, as Parmenides and Thales equally 
taught, Anaxagoras proclaimed The All to be The Many. But 
the mass of elements were as yet unmixed. What was to mix 
them ? What power caused them to become arranged in one 
harmonious all-embracing system ? 

This power Anaxagoras declared to be Intelligence (voug), 
the moving force of the Universe. He had, on the one hand, re¬ 
jected Fate, as an empty name; on the other, he rejected Chance, 
as being no more than the Cause unperceived by human rea¬ 
soning (r^v ‘tu^v, udr]Xo'j alriav avfywHvoj Xoy«j>oj). This is 
another remarkable glimpse of what modern philosophy was 
to establish. Having thus disclaimed these two powers, so po¬ 
tent in early speculation, Fate and Chance, he had no other 
course left than to proclaim Intelligence the Arranging Power.* 

This seems to us, on the whole, the most remarkable specula¬ 
tion of all the pre-Socratic epoch ; and indeed is so very near the 
philosophic precision of modern times, that it is with difficulty we 


* We have his own words reported "by Dioofonoe, who says that his work 
opened thus : “Formerly all things were a confused mass; afterwards, In¬ 
telligence coming, arranged them into worlds.” 




ANAXAGORAS. 


i l 

preserve its original simplicity. We will cite a portion of the 
fragment preserved by Simplicius, wherein Intelligence is spok¬ 
en of:—“ Intelligence (vou?) is infinite, and autocratic; it is 
mixed up w r ith nothing, but exists alone in and for itself. Were 
it otherwise, were it mixed up with any thing, it would partici¬ 
pate in the nature of all things ; for in all there is a part of all; 
and so that which was mixed with intelligence would prevent it 
from exercising power over all things.”*—In this passage we 
have an expression of the modern conception of the Deity acting 
through invariable laws, but in no way mixed up with the mat¬ 
ter acted on. 

AVill not the foregoino; remarks enable us to meet Aristotle’s 
objection to Anaxagoras, that “he uses Intelligence as a machine,! 
in respect to the formation of the world ; so that, when he is 
embarrassed how to explain the cause of this or that, he intro¬ 
duces Intelligence; but in all other things it is any cause but 
Intelligence which produces things ?” Now, surely this is a very 
unfair criticism, and could only be valid against one who, like 
Malebranche, saw God everywhere. Anaxagoras assigned to In¬ 
telligence the great Arrangement of the liomoeomerice; but of 
course he supposed that subordinate arrangements were carried 
on by themselves. The Christian thinker some centuries back 
believed that the Deity created and ordained all things; never¬ 
theless when he burnt his finger, the cause of the burn he attrib¬ 
uted to fire, and not to God; but when the thunder muttered in 
the sky he attributed that to no cause but God. Is not this 
similar to the conception formed by Anaxagoras ? AAdiat he can 
explain, he does explain by natural causes ; whatever he is em¬ 
barrassed to explain, whatever he does not understand, he attrib- 


* This passage perfectly accords with what Aristotle says, Be Anima , i. 2, 
and Metaph. i. 7. 

t This is an allusion to the theatrical artifice of bringing down a God 
from Olympus, to solve the difficulty of the denouement ,—the Beus ex 
machina of Horace. "We make this remark to caution the reader agains’c 
supposing that the objection is to a mechanical intelligence. 

8 



78 


ANAXAGORAS. 


utes to God. It is here we see the force of Anaxagoras’s opinion 
respecting Chance as an unascertained cause: what others called 
the effect of Chance, he called the effect of the universal Intel¬ 
ligence. 

On the same grounds we object to the reasoning of Plato. 
Those who have read the Phcedo ,—and who has not read it in 
some shape or other, either in the original diction, or in the dim 
and misty version of some translator ?—those who have read the 
Plicedo, we say, will doubtless remember the passage in which 
Socrates is made to express his poignant disappointment at the 
doctrine of Anaxagoras, to which he had at first been so attract¬ 
ed. This passage has an air of authenticity. It expresses a real 
disappointment, and the disappointment of Socrates, not merely 
of Plato. AVe believe firmly that Socrates is here expressing his 
own opinion; and it is rarely that we can say this of opinions 
promulgated by Plato under the august name of his master. 
Here is the passage in the misty version of Thomas Taylor: we 
make no alterations, otherwise we should hold ourselves respon¬ 
sible for the whole: 

“ But having once heard a person reading from a certain book, 
composed as he said by Anaxagoras, when he came to that part 
in which he says that intellect orders and is the cause of all 
things, I was delighted with this cause, and thought that in a 
certain respect it was an excellent thing for intellect to be the 
cause of all; and I considered if this was the case, disposing in¬ 
tellect would adorn all things, and place every thing in that 
situation in which it would subsist in the best manner. If any 
one therefore should be willing to discover the cause through 
which every thing is generated or corrupted, or is, he ought to 
discover how it may subsist in the best manner, or suffer, or per¬ 
form any thing else. In consequence of this, therefore, it is proper 
that a man should consider nothing else, either about himself or 
about others, except that which is the most excellent and the best; 
but it is necessary that he who knows this should also know that 
which is subordinate, since there is oue and the same science of 


ANAXAGORAS. 


79 


both. But thus reasoning with myself, I rejoiced, thinking that 
I had found a preceptor in Anaxagoras who would instruct me 
in the causes of things agreeable to my own conceptions; and 
that he would inform me in the first place whether the earth is 
flat or round, and afterwards explain the cause of its being so, ad¬ 
ducing for this purpose that which is better, and showing that it 
is better for the earth to exist in this manner. And if he should 
say that it is situated in the middle, that he would besides this 
show that it was better for it to be in the middle—and if he 
should render all this apparent to me, I was so disposed as not 
to require any other species of cause; for I by no means thought, 
after he had said, that all these were orderly disposed by intel¬ 
lect, he would introduce any other cause for their subsistence ex¬ 
cept that which shows that it is better for them to exist in this 
manner. Hence I thought that in rendering the cause common 
to each particular and to all things, he would explain that which 
is best for each, and is the common good of all. And indeed I 
would not have exchanged these hopes for a mighty gain! But 
having obtained his books with prodigious eagerness, I read them 
with great celerity, that I might with great celerity know that 
which is best and that which is base. 

“ But from this admirable hope, my friend, I was forced away, 
when in the course of my reading I saw him make no use of in¬ 
tellect, nor employ certain causes for the purpose of orderly dis¬ 
posing particulars, but assign air, ether, and water, and many 
other things equally absurd, as the causes of things. And he 
appeared to me to be affected in a manner similar to him who 
should assert that all the actions of Socrates are produced by in¬ 
tellect ; and afterwards, endeavoring to relate the causes of each 
particular action, should say that I now sit here because, in the 
first place, my body is composed of bones and nerves, and that 
the bones are solid and are separated by intervals from each 
other; but that the nerves, which are by nature capable of in¬ 
tension and remission, cover the bones together with the skin in 
which they are contained. The bones therefore, being suspended 


80 


ANAXAGORAS. 


from tlieir joints, the nerves, by straining and relaxing them, 
enable me to bend my limbs as at present; and through this 
cause I here sit in an iuflected position. And again, should as¬ 
sign other such like causes of my now conversing with you, 
namely, voice, and air, and hearing, and a thousand other partic¬ 
ulars, neglecting the true cause, that since it appeared to the 
Athenians better to condemn me on this account, it also appeared 
to me better and more just to sit here, and thus abiding, sustain 
the punishment which they have ordained me; for otherwise, by 
the dog, as it appears to me, these bones and nerves would have 
been carried long ago either into Megara or Boeotia through an 
opinion of that which is best, if I had not thought it more just 
and becoming to sustain the punishment ordered by my country, 
whatever it might be, than to withdraw myself and run away. 
But to call things of this kind causes is extremely absurd. In¬ 
deed, if any one should say that without possessing such things 
as bones and nerves I could not act as I do, he would speak the 
truth; but to assert that I act as I do at present through these, 
and that I operate with this intellect, and not from a choice of 
what is best, would be an assertion full of extreme negligence and 
sloth : for this would be the consequence of not being able to col¬ 
lect by division that the true cause of a thing is very different 
from that without which a cause would not be a cause.” 

Now this reasoning we take to be an ignoratio elenchi. The 
illustration made use of is nothing to the purpose, and would be 
admitted by Anaxagoras as true, without in the least impugning 
his argument. 

The Intelligence, which Anaxagoras conceived, was in no wise 
a moral Intelligence: it was simply the primum mobile , the all¬ 
knowing and motive force by which the arrangement of the ele¬ 
ments was affected. Hence from a passage in Aristotle, some 
have inferred that the vouk was only a physical principle, the sole 
office of which was to set matter in motion. This is an error 
easy of explanation. Men are still so accustomed to conceive the 
divine Intelligence as only a more perfect and exalted human 


ANAXAGORAS. 


81 


Intelligence, that where they see no traces of the latter they are 
prone to question the existence of the former. When Anaxago¬ 
ras says that Nous w T as the creative principle, men instantly 
figure to themselves a Nous similar to human intelligence. On 
examination, they find that such an intelligence as they conceive 
has no place in the doctrine, whereupon they declare that Intel¬ 
ligence has no place there; the Nous , they aver, means no more 
than Motion, and might have been called Motion. 

But fortunately Simplicius has preserved a long passage from 
the work of Anaxagoras; we have already quoted a portion of 
it, and shall now select one or two sentences in which the Nous , 
as a cognitive power, is distinctly set forth; and we quote these 
the more readily because Ritter, to whom we are indebted for the 
passage, has not translated it:—“ Intelligence is, of all things, 
the subtlest and purest, and has entire knowledge of all. Every 
thing which has a soul, whether great or*small, is governed by 
the Intelligence (voGk xparsT). Intelligence knows all things 
(tfavra syvw vovg), both those that are mixed and those that are 
separated; and the things which ought to be, and the things 
which were, and those which now are, and those which will be; 
all are arranged by Intelligence (tfavra SisxoC^ds voC^*).” Here 
the creative, or rather disposing, faculty is not more distinctly 
expressed than the cognitive. The Nous both Tcnows and acts: 
this is its duplicate existence. A grand conception : one seldom 
rivalled in ancient speculation; one so far in advance of the epoch 
as to be a puzzle to all critics. 

The relation in which the system of Anaxagoras stands to 
other systems may be briefly characterized. The Infinite Matter 
of the Ionians became in his hands the homoeomerice. Instead of 
one substance, such as Water, Air, or Fire, he saw the necessity 
of admitting Many substances. At the same time, he carried out 


* It would be needless after this to refer to the numerous expressions 
of Aristotle in confirmation. The critical reader will do well to consult 
Trendelenburg , Comment. Aristot. de Anim. } p. 466 et seq. Plato, in speaking 
of the voCf, adds Ka'i ipvx >'/.— Craty., p. 400. 



82 


ANAXAGORAS. 


the Pythagorean and Eleatic principle of The One; thus avoid¬ 
ing the dialectical thrusts of Zeno against the upholders of The 
Many. Hegel and M. Cousin would call this eclecticism; and 
in one sense they would be correct; but inasmuch as Anaxago¬ 
ras was led to his doctrine by the development which the Ionian 
and the Eleatic principles had taken, and was not led to it by 
any eclectical method, we must protest against the application 
of such a name. There was a truth dimly recognized by the 
Ionians, namely, that the material phenomena are all reducible 
to some noumenon or noumena , some apxv- What that Begin¬ 
ning was, they variously sought. Anaxagoras also sought it; 
and his doctrine of perception convinced him that it could not 
be One principle, but Many; hence his homoeomence . So far he 
was an Ionian. But there was also a truth dimly seen by the 
Eleatics, namely, that The Many could never be resolved into 
One; and as without One there could not be Many, and with 
the Many only there could not be One; in other words, as God 
must be The One from whom the multiplicity of things is de¬ 
rived, the necessity of admitting The One as The All and the 
Self-existent was proved. This reasoning was accepted by Anax¬ 
agoras. He saw that there were Many things; he saw also the 
necessity for The One. In so far he was an Eleatic. • 

Up to this point the two doctrines had been at variance: a 
chasm of infinite depth yawned between them. Zeno’s invention 
of Dialectics was a result of this profound difference. It was 
reserved for Anaxagoras to bridge over the chasm which could 
not be filled up. He did so with consummate skill. He ac¬ 
cepted both doctrines, with some modifications, and proclaimed 
the existence of the Infinite Intelligence (The One) who was the 
Architect of the Infinite Matter ( homoeomerice , the Many). By 
this means he escaped each horn of the dilemma; he escaped 
that which gored the Ionians, namely, as to how and why the 
Infinite Matter became fashioned into worlds and beings: since 
Matter by itself can only be Matter. He escaped that which 
gored the Eleatics, as to how and why the Infinite One, who was 


EMPEDOCLES. 


83 


pure and unmixed, became the Infinite Man} 7 , impure and mixed ; 
since one thing could never be more than one thing. It must 
have some one thing on which to act, for it cannot act upon 
itself. Anaxagoras escaped both by his dualistic theory of Mind 
fashioning, and Matter fashioned. 

A similar bridge was thrown by him over the deep chasm sepa¬ 
rating the Sensualists from the Rationalists, with respect to the 
origin of knowledge. He admitted both Sense and Reason; 
others had only admitted either Sense or Reason. 

These two points entitle Anaxagoras to a very high rank in 
the history of Philosophy; and we regret to see that Aristotle 
uniformly speaks disparagingly of him, but we believe that the 
great Stagirite did not clearly apprehend the force of the doc¬ 
trine he was combating. 


§ III. Empedocles. 

We are forced to differ from all historians w r e have consulted, 
except De Gerando, who hesitates about the matter, respecting 
the place occupied by Empedocles. Brucker classes him among 
the Pythagoreans; Ritter, amongst the Eleatics; Zeller and 
Hegel, as the precursor of the Atomists, who precede Anaxa¬ 
goras ; Renouvier, as the precursor of Anaxagoras; Tennemann 
placing Diogenes of Apollonia between Anaxagoras and Em¬ 
pedocles, but making Democritus precede them. When we 
come to treat of the doctrines of Empedocles, we shall endeavor 
to show the filiation of ideas from Anaxagoras. Meanwhile it is 
necessary to examine the passage in Aristotle, on which very 
contradictory opinions have been grounded. 

In the 3d chapter of the 1st book of Aristotle’s Metaphysics , 
after a paragraph on the system of Empedocles, occurs this pass¬ 
age : “ But Anaxagoras of Clazomente being superior to him 
(Empedocles) in respect of age, but inferior to him in respect of 
opinions, said that the number of principles was infinite.” By 
“ superior ” and “ inferior ” we preserve the antithesis of the origi- 


84 


EMPEDOCLES. 


nal; but it would be more intelligible to say, “ older ” and 
u inferior.''' 

There are two other interpretations of this passage. One of 
them is that of M. Cousin (after Hegel), who believes that the 
antithesis of Aristotle is meant to convey the fact of Anaxagoras, 
although older in point of time, being more recent in point of 
published doctrine than Empedocles, having written after him. 
This is his translation: “ Anaxagoras, qui naquit avant ce 
dernier, mais qui ecrivit apres lui.” 

The second is that adopted by M. Renouvier from M. Ravaisson, 
who interprets it as meaning that the doctrine of Anaxagoras, 
though more ancient in point of publication, is more recent in 
point of thought; i. e. more developed philosophically, although 
historically earlier. 

Now we believe both these interpretations to be erroneous. 
There is no ground for them except the antithesis of Aristotle; 
and the original of this disputed passage is, 'Avagayopug 8s 6 
[vXa^opivio? rff piiv fjXix'ux, rfporspog wv rourou, ro~g 8 * spying v&rspog ; 
which is rendered by MM. Pierron and Zevort: “ Anaxagore de 
Clazomene, l’aine d’Empedocle, n'etait pas arrive a un systeme 
aussi plausible 

This agrees with our version. We confess however that on a 
first glance M. Cousin’s version better preserves the force of 
the antithesis <nf /xs'v djXixta rfporspog—roJg 8 ’ spyoig vCrspog. But 
other reasons prevent a concurrence in this interpretation. MM. 
Pierron and Zevort, in their note on the passage, remark: “ Mais 
les mots spyp, spyoig, dans une opposition, ont ordinairement une 
signification vague, comme re, revera, chez les Latins, et, cliez 
nous, en fait , en realitl .” The force of the objection does not 
strike us. If Anaxagoras was in fact , in reality , posterior to 
Empedocles, we can only understand this in the sense M. Cousin 
has understood Aristotle; and moreover, MM. Pierron and 
Zevort here contradict their translation, which says that, in point 


* La Metaphysique d'Aristote, i. 233. 



EMPEDOCLES. 


85 


of fact, the system of Anaxagoras was not so plausible as that of 
Empedocles. 

More weight must be laid on the meaning of vtfrspog, which 
certainly cannot be exclusively taken to mean posterior in point 
of time. In the 11th chapter of Aristotle’s 5th book he treats 
of all the significations of rfporspog and vrfrspog. One of these 
significations is superiority and inferiority. In the sense of infe¬ 
riority utf-rspog is often used by the poets. Thus Sophocles: 

T i2 piapbv Jfdoi, Kai yvvaiicbi tiarspov ! 

“ 0 shameful character, below a woman!” 

“Inferior” is the primitive meaning; in English we say, “second 
to none,” for “ inferior to none.” 

This meaning of vtfrs pog, namely, of inferiority, is the one 
always understood by the old commentators on the passage in 
question; none of them understood a chronological posteriority. 
npo<rspo£ indicates priority in point of time; v&rspog inferiority in 
point of merit. Thus Pliiloponus: “ Prior quidem tempore, sed 
posterior et mancus secundum opinionem” (fob 2 a); and the 
anonymous scholiast of the Vatican MS.: tfporspog youv rw p^povw, 
d\\' ucfrspog xai iXkelrfwv xard <niv <5ogav—“ first indeed in time, 
but second and inferior in point of doctrine.” 

The only question which now remains to be answered in order 
to establish the truth of the foregoing interpretation of uCrspog, is 
this: Did Aristotle regard the system of Anaxagoras as inferior 
to that of Empedocles ? 

This question we can answer distinctly in the affirmative. The 
reader will remember our citation of the passage in which Aris¬ 
totle blames Anaxagoras for never employing his First Cause 
(Intelligence) except upon emergencies. Aristotle continues 
thus: “Empedocles employs his causes more abundantly , though 
not indeed sufficiently,—Kcu E ym’SOoxXrig £<rt tfXs'ov [xsv roCrp 
yjprpax roTg airioig, ou [x-ij ours ixavug. — Met. i. 4. 

Chronology is moreover in favor of our view. Anaxagoras 
was born about the '70th Olympiad ; Empedocles, by general con- 


86 


EMPEDOCLES. 


sent, is said to have flourished in the 84th Olympiad; this would 
make Anaxagoras at least fifty-six years old at the time when Em¬ 
pedocles published his doctrine, after which age it is barely prob¬ 
able that Anaxagoras would have begun to write ; and even this 
probability vanishes when we look upon the life of Anaxagoras, 
who was teaching in Athens about the ^Gth or Wth Olympiad, 
and who died at Lampsacus, in exile, in the 88th Olympiad, viz. 
sixteen years after the epoch in which Empedocles is said to 
have flourished. 

Trusting that the above point was not unworthy of brief dis¬ 
cussion, we will now commence the narrative. 

Empedocles was born at Agrigentum, in Sicily, and flourished 
about the 84th Olympiad (b. c. 444). Agrigentum was at that 
period at the height of its splendor, and was a formidable rival 
to Syracuse. Empedocles, descended from a wealthy and illus¬ 
trious family, acquired a high reputation by his resolute espousal 
of the democratic party. Much of his wealth is said to have 
been spent in a singular but honorable manner: namely, in be¬ 
stowing dowries on poor girls, and marrying them to young men 
of rank and consequence. Like most of the early philosophers, 
he is supposed to have been a great traveller, and to have gath¬ 
ered in distant lands the wondrous store of knowledge which he 
displayed. It was assumed that only in the far East could he have 
learned the potent secrets of Medicine and Magic; only from the 
Egyptian Magi could he have learned the art of prophecy. 

It is probable, however, that he did travel into Italy, and to 
Athens. But in truth we can mention little of his personal his¬ 
tory that is not open to question. His name rivals that of Py¬ 
thagoras in the regions of fable. The same august majesty of 
demeanor and the same marvellous power over nature are attrib¬ 
uted to both. Miracles were his pastimes. In prophecy, in 
medicine, in power over the winds and rains, his wonders were 
so numerous and so renowned, that when he appeared at the 
Olympic Games all eyes were reverentially fixed upon him. His 
dress and demeanor accorded with his reputation. Haughty 


EMPEDOCLES. 


87 


impassioned, and eminently disinterested in character, he refused 
the government of Agrigentum when freely offered him by the 
citizens; but his love of distinction showed itself in priestly gar¬ 
ments, a golden girdle, the Delphic crown, and a numerous train 
of attendants. He proclaimed himself to be a God whom men 
and women reverently adored. But we must not take this liter¬ 
ally : he probably only “ assumed by anticipation an honor 
which he promised all soothsayers, priests, physicians, and 
princes of the people.” 

Fable has also taken advantage of the mystery which overhangs 
his death, to create out of it various stories of marvel. One re¬ 
lates that, after a sacred festival, he was drawn up to heaven in a 
splendor of celestial effulgence. Another, and more popular one 
is, that he threw himself headlong into the crater of Mount ./Etna, 
in order that he might pass for a God, the cause of his death be¬ 
ing unknown; but one of his brazen sandals, thrown out in an 
eruption, revealed the secret. 

A similar uncertainty exists as to his Teachers and his Writings. 
Pythagoras, Parmenides, Xenophanes, and Anaxagoras have all 
been positively named as his Teachers. Unless we understand 
the word Teachers in a figurative sense, we must absolutely re¬ 
ject these statements. Diogenes Laertius, who reports them, does 
so in his dullest manner,.with an absence of criticism remarkable 
even in him.* Considering that there was, at least, one hundred 
and forty years between Pythagoras and Empedocles, we need no 
further argument to disprove any connection between them. 

Diogenes, on the authority of Aristotle (as he says), attributes 
to Empedocles the invention of Rhetoric; and Quinctilian (iii. c. 1) 
has repeated the statement. We have no longer the work of 
Aristotle; but, as Ritter says, the assertion must have arisen 
from a misunderstanding, or have been said in jest by Aristotle, 
because Empedocles was the teacher of Gorgias : most likely 

* Diogenes is one of the stupidest of the stupid race of compilers. Hia 
work is useful, because containing occasional extracts, but can rarely be re¬ 
lied on for any thing else. 




8S 


EMPEDOCLES. 


from a misunderstanding, since Sextus Empiricus mentions Aris¬ 
totle as having said that Empedocles first incited , or gave an im¬ 
pulse to Rhetoric.* Aristotle, in his Rhetoric , declares that 
Corax and Tisias were the first to publish a written Treatise on 
Eloquence. We feel the less hesitation in rejecting the state¬ 
ment of Diogenes, because in the very passage which succeeds he 
is guilty of a very gross misquotation of Aristotle, who, as he 
says, “ in his book of The Poets speaks of Empedocles as Homeric, 
powerful in his eloquence, rich in metaphors, and other poetical 
figures.”f Now this work of Aristotle on the Poets is fortunately 
extant, and it proclaims the very reverse of what Diogenes alleges. 
Here is the passage:—“ Custom, indeed, connecting the poetry 
or making with the metre , has denominated some elegiac poets, 
others epic poets: thus distinguishing poets, not according to the 
nature of their imitation, but according to that of their metre 
only; for even they who composed treatises of Medicine, or Natu¬ 
ral Philosophy in verse, are denominated Poets: yet Homer and 
Empedocles have nothing in common except their metre ; the for¬ 
mer, therefore, justly merits the name of Poet; the other should 
rather be called a Physiologist than a Poet.”J 

It is, indeed, quite possible that Diogenes may have had before 
him a book itspi rfoiyrCjv, perhaps one of the many spurious 
treatises current under Aristotle’s name; but it is not probable 
that Aristotle would have expressed an ojfinion so contrary to the 
one given in his authentic work. 

The diversity of opinion, with respect to the position of Em¬ 
pedocles, indicated at the opening of this Chapter, is not without 
significance. That men such as Hegel, Ritter, Zeller, and Ten- 
nemann should see reasons for different classification, cannot be 
without importance to the Historian. Their arguments destroy 
each other; but it does not therefore follow that they all build 
upon false grounds. Each view has a certain truth in it; but, 
not being the whole truth, it cannot prevail. The cause of the 


* n p&rov KtKivrjKtvai. — Adv. Mat. vii. 
t Dioy. Laert. lib. viii. c. ii. § 8, p. 57. 


\ De Poet. c. 1 . 



EMPEDOCLES. 


89 


difference seems to be this: Empedocles has something of the 
Pythagorean, Eleatic, Heraclitic, and Anaxagorean systems in 
his system; so that each historian, detecting one of these ele¬ 
ments, and omitting to give due importance to the others, has 
connected Empedocles with the system to which that one ele¬ 
ment belongs. Ritter and Zeller have, however, been aware of 
some of the complex relations of the doctrine, but failed, we 
think, in giving it its true position. 

Respecting human knowledge, Empedocles belongs partly to 
the Eleatics. With them, he complained of the imperfection of 
the Senses; and looked for truth only in Reason, which is partly 
human and partly divine : it is partly clouded by the senses. 
The divine knowledge is opposed to sensuous knowledge; for 
men cannot approach the divine, neither can he seize it with the 
hand nor the eye. Hence Empedocles conjoined the duty ot 
contemplating God in the mind. But he appears to have pro¬ 
claimed the existence of this divine knowledge without attempt¬ 
ing to determine its relation to human knowledge. In this re¬ 
spect he resembles rather Xenophanes than Parmenides.* * 

We have no clear testimony of his having studied the works 
of Anaxagoras; but, if w r e had, it might not be difficult to ex¬ 
plain his inferior theory of knowledge; for, in truth, the theory 
of Anaxagoras was too far in advance of the age to be rightly 
apprehended. Empedocles, therefore, adhered to the Eleatic 
theory. With Xenophanes, he bewailed the delusion of the 
seuses and experience. Listen to his lament: 

“ Swift-fated and conscious, how brief is life’s pleasureless portion ! 

Like the wind-driven smoke, they are carried backwards and forwards, 
Each trusting to naught save what his experience vouches, 

On all sides distracted ; yet wishing to find out the whole truth, 

In vain; neither by eye nor ear perceptible to man, 

JYor to be grasped by mind: and thou, when thus thou hast wandered, 
Wilt find that no further reaches the knowledge of mortals.” 


* Having quoted Aristotle’s testimony of the sensuous nature of knowl¬ 
edge in the Empedoclean theory, we need only here refer to it; adding that, 
in this respect, Empedocles ranks with Parmenides rather than with Xeno- 

jhanes. 

* 



90 


EMPEDOCLES. 


These verses seem to indicate a skepticism of Reason as well 
as of the Senses; but other passages show that he upheld the 
integrity of Reason, which he thought was only prevented from 
revealing the whole truth because it was imprisoned in the body. 
Mundane existence was, in his system, the doom of such immor¬ 
tal souls as had been disgraced from Heaven. The Fall of Man 
he thus distinctly enunciated: 

“This is the law of Fate, of the Gods an olden enactment, 

If with guilt or murder a Daemon* polluteth his members, 

Thrice ten thousand years must he wander apart from the blessed. 
Hence, doomed I stray, a fugitive from Gods and an outcast, 

To raging strife submissive.” 

But he had some more philosophical ground to go upon when 
he wished to prove the existence of Reason and of the Divine 
Nature. He maintained that like could only be known by like: 
through earth we learn the earth, through fire we learn fire, 
through strife we learn strife, and through love we learn love. 
If, therefore,! like could only be known by like, the Divine could 
only be known by Divine Reason; and, inasmuch as the Divine 
is recognized by man, it is a proof that the Divine exists. Knowl¬ 
edge and Existence mutually imply each other. 

Empedocles resembles Xenophanes also in his attacks on an¬ 
thropomorphism. God, he says, has neither head adjusted to 
limbs, like human beings, nor legs, nor hands : 

“ He is, wholly and perfectly, mind ineffable, holy, 

With rapid and swift-glancing thought pervading the whole world.” 

We may compare these verses with the line of Xenophanes—• 

“ Without labor he ruleth all things by reason and insight.” 


* An immortal soul. 

t We are here thinking for Empedocles ; we have no other authority for 
this statement, than that something of the kind is wanting to make out a 
plausible explanation of what is only implied in the fragments extant. The 
fragments tell us that he believed in Reason as the transcendent faculty; 
and also that Reason did in some way recognize the Divine. All we have 
done is to supply the link wanting. 



EMPEDOCLES. 


91 


Thus far Empedocles belonged to the Eleatics. The traces of 
Pythagoras are fewer; for we cannot regard as such all those 
analogies which the ingenuity of some critics has detected.* In 
his life, and in his moral precepts, there is a strong resemblance 
to Pythagoras; but in his philosophy we see none beyond me¬ 
tempsychosis, and the consequent abstinence from animal food. 

Heraclitus had said there was nothing but a perpetual flux of 
things, that the whole world of phenomena was as a flowing river, 
ever-changing yet apparently the same. Anaxagoras had also 
said that there was no creation of elements, but only an arrange¬ 
ment. Empedocles was now to amalgamate these views. “ Fools!” 
he exclaims, 

“ Who think aught can begin to be which formerly was not, 

Or, that aught which is, can perish and utterly decay.f 
Another truth I now unfold : no natural birth 
Is there of mortal things, nor death’s destruction final; 

Nothing is there but a mingling , and then a separation of the mingled , 
Which are called a birth and death by ignorant mortals.”}: 

So distinct a relationship as these verses manifest towards both 
Heraclitus and Anaxagoras will account for the classification 
adopted by Hegel, Zeller, and Renouvier; at the same time it 
gives greater strength to our opinion of Empedocles as the suc¬ 
cessor of these two. 

The differences are, however, as great as the resemblances. 
Having asserted that all things were but a mingling and a sepa¬ 
ration, he must have admitted the existence of certain primary 
elements, which were the materials mingled. 

Heraclitus had affirmed Fire to be both the principle and the 
element; both the moving, mingling force, and the mingled 
matter. Anaxagoras, with great logical consistency, affirmed 
that the primary elements were homoeomerice , since nothing could 


* See them noticed in Zeller, Philos, der Griechen , pp. 169-173 (1845). 
t Compare Anaxagoras, as quoted above : “Wrongly do the Greeks sup¬ 
pose that aught begins or ceases to be.” 

% Compare Anaxagoras: “So that all-becoming might more properly be 
called becoming mixed, and all-corruption becoming separate.” 




92 


EMPEDOCLES. 


proceed from nothing, and whatever was arranged must, there¬ 
fore, be an arrangement of primary elements. Empedocles affirm 
ed that the primary elements were four, viz. Earth, Air, Fire, 
and Water: out of these all other things proceed ; all things are 
but the various minglings of these four. 

Now, that this is an advance on both the preceding concep¬ 
tions will scarcely be denied; it bears indubitable evidence of 
being a later conception, and a modification of its antecedents. 
Nevertheless, although superior as a physiological view, it has not 
the logical consistency of the view maintained by Anaxagoras; 
for, as Empedocles taught that like can only be known by like, 
i. c. that existence and knowledge were identical and mutually 
implicative, he ought to have maintained that whatever is recog¬ 
nized by the mind as distinct, must be distinct in esse. 

With respect to the Formative Power, we see the traces of He¬ 
raclitus and Anaxagoras in about the same proportion. Herac¬ 
litus maintained that Fire was impelled by irresistible Desire to 
transform itself into some determinate existence. Anaxagoras 
maintained that the infinite Intelligence was the great Architect 
who arranged all the material elements, the Mind that controlled 
and fashioned Matter. The great distinction between these two 
systems is, that the Fire transforms itself, the Nous transforms 
something which is radically different from itself. Both these 
conceptions were amalgamated by Empedocles. He taught that 
Love was the creative power. Wherever there is a mixture of 
different elements, Love is exerted. 

Here we see the Desire of Heraclitus sublimed into its highest 
expression, and the Nous of Anaxagoras reduced to its moral ex¬ 
pression, Love. The difficulties of the Ileraclitean doctrine, 
namely, as to how Fire can ever become any thing different from 
Fire, are avoided by the adoption of the Anaxagorean dualism ; 
while the difficulties of the Anaxagorean doctrine, namely, as to 
how the great Arranger was moved and incited to arrange the 
primary elements, are in some measure avoided by the natural 
desire of Love (Aphrodite). 


EMPEDOCLES. 


93 


But there was a difficulty still to be overcome. If Love was 
the creator, that is, the Mingler, what caused separation ? To 
explain this, he had recourse to Hate. As the perfect state of 
supramundane existence was Harmony, the imperfect state of 
mundane existence was Discord. Love was, therefore, the Form¬ 
ative Principle, and Hate the Destructive. Hence he said that 

“ All the members of God war together, one after the other.” 

This is but the phrase of Heraclitus, “ Strife is the parent of all 
things. ’ It is nevertheless most probable that Empedocles re¬ 
garded Hate as only a mundane power, as only operating on the 
theatre of the world, and nowise disturbing the abode of the 
Gods.* For, inasmuch as man is a fallen and perverted God, 
doomed to wander on the face of the earth, sky-aspiring, but 
sense-clouded ; so may Hate be only perverted Love, struggling 
through space. Does not this idea accord with what we know 
of his opinions ? His conception of God, that is, of the One, was 
that of a “sphere in the bosom of harmony fixed, in calm rest, 
gladly rejoicing.” This quiescent sphere, which is Love, exists 
above and around the moved World. Certain points are loosen¬ 
ed from the combination of the elements, but the unity estab¬ 
lished by Love continues. Ritter is convinced that “ Hate has 
only power over the smaller portion of existence, over that part 
which, disconnecting itself from the whole, contaminates itself 
with crime, and thereby devolves to the errors of mortals.” 

Our account of Empedocles will be found to vary considerably 
from that in Aristotle; but our excuse is furnished by the great 
Stagirite himself, who is constantly telling us that Empedocles 
gave no reasons for his opinions. Moreover, Aristotle makes 
us aware that his own interpretation is open to question ; for he 
says, that this interpretation can only be obtained by pushing 
the premises of Empedocles to their legitimate conclusions; a 
process which destroys all historical integrity, for what thinker 
does push his premises to their utmost limits ? 

* An opinion stibsequently put forth by Plato in the PJicedrus. 

9 



94 


DEMOCRITUS. 


§ IV. Democritus. 

The laughing Philosopher, the traditional antithesis to Herac¬ 
litus, was born at Abdera (the new settlement of the Teians after 
their abandonment of Ionia), in the 80th Olympiad (b. c. 460) 
His claim to the title of Laugher, 6 ysXa.tf'ivos, has been disputed, 
and by moderns generally rejected. Perhaps the native stupidity 
of his countrymen, who were renowned for abusing the privilege 
of being stupid, afforded him incessant matter for laughter. 
Perhaps he was by nature satirical, and thought ridicule the test 
of truth. He was of a noble and wealthy family, so wealthy 
that it entertained Xerxes at Abdera. Xerxes in recompense 
left some of his Magi to instruct the young Democritus. Doubt¬ 
less it was their tales of the wonders of their native land, and 
the deep unspeakable wisdom of their priests, which inspired him 
with the passion for travel. “ I, of all men,” he says, “ of my 
day, have travelled over the greatest extent of country, exploring 
the most distant lands; most climates and regions have I visited, 
and listened to the most experienced and wisest of men; and 
in the calculations of line-measuring no one hath surpassed me, 
not even the Egyptians, amongst whom I sojourned five years.” 
In travel he spent his patrimony; but he exchanged it for an 
amount of knowledge which no one had previously equalled. 

The Abderites, on his return, looked on him with vague won¬ 
der. The sun-burnt traveller brought with him knowledge which, 
to them, must have appeared divine. He exhibited a few samples 
of his lore, foretold unexpected changes in the weather, and was 
at once exalted to the summit of that power to which it is a 
nation’s pride to bow. He was offered political supremacy, but 
wisely declined it. 

It would be idle to detail here the various anecdotes which tra¬ 
dition hands down respecting him. They are mostly either im¬ 
possible or improbable. That, for instance, of his having put out 
his eyes with a burning-glass, in order that he might be more 
perfectly and undisturbedly acquainted with his reason, is in vio- 


DEMOCRITUS. 


95 


lent contradiction to his theory of the eye being one of the great 
inlets to the soul. Tradition is less questionable in its account 
of his having led a quiet, sober life, and of his dying at a very 
advanced age. More we cannot credit. 

Respecting his Philosophy there is some certain evidence; but 
it has been so variously interpreted, and is in many parts so ob¬ 
scure, that historians have been at a loss to give it its due posi¬ 
tion in relation to other systems. Reinhold, Brandis, Marbach, 
and Hermann view him as an Ionian; Bulile and Tennemann, 
as an Eleatic; Hegel, as the successor of Heraclitus, and the 
predecessor of Anaxagoras ; Ritter, as a Sophist; and Zeller, as 
the precursor of Anaxagoras. Of all these attempts at classifica¬ 
tion, that by Ritter seems to me the worst. Because Democri¬ 
tus has an occasional phrase implying great vanity—and those 
mentioned by Ritter seem to us to imply nothing of the kind— 
he is said to be a Sophist! 

Democritus is distinguished from the Ionians by the denial of 
all sensible quality to the primary elements; from the Eleatics 
by his affirmation of the existence of a multiplicity of elements; 
from Heraclitus on the same ground; from Anaxagoras, as we 
shall see presently; and from Empedocles, by denying the Four 
Elements, and the Formative Love. All these differences are 
radical. The resemblances, such as they are, may have been co¬ 
incidences, or derived from one or two of the later thinkers : Par¬ 
menides and Anaxagoras, for example. 

What did Democritus teach ? This question we will endeavor 
to answer somewhat differently from other historians; but our 
answer shall be wholly grounded on precise and certain data, 
with no other originality than that of developing the system 
from its central principles. 

To commence with Knowledge, and with the passage of Aris¬ 
totle, universally accredited, though variously interpreted : “ De¬ 
mocritus says, that either nothing is true, or what is true is not 
evident to us. Universally in his system, the sensation consti¬ 
tutes the thought, and as at the same time it is but a change 


DEMOCRITUS. 


^6 

[in the sentient being], the sensible phenomena (i. e. sensations) 
are of necessity true.”* * * § This pregnant passage means, I think, 
that sensation, inasmuch as it is sensation, must be true : that is, 
true subjectively ; but sensation, inasmuch as it is sensation, can¬ 
not be true objectively. M. Renouvier thinks that Democritus 
was the first to introduce this distinction ; but our readers will 
remember that it was the distinction established by Anaxagoras. 
Sextus Empiricus quotes the very words of Democritus : “ The 
sweet exists only in form, the bitter in form, the hot inform, the 
cold in form, color in form ; but in causal reality (aWif)] 
only atoms and space exist. The sensible things which are 
supposed by opinion to exist have no real existence, but only 
atoms and space exist.”J When he says that sweetness, heat, 
color, etc., exist in form only, he means that they are sensible 
images constantly emanating from things ; a notion we shall ex¬ 
plain presently. A little further on, Sextus reports the opinion, 
that we only perceive that which falls in upon us according to 
the disposition of our bodies; all else is hidden from us. 

Neither Condillac nor Destutt de Tracy has more distinctly 
identified sensation and thought, than in the above passages. 
But Democritus does so in the spirit of Kant rather than that of 
Condillac; for, although with the latter he would say, “ Penser, 
c’est sentir,” yet he would with the former draw the distinction 
between phenomenal and noumenal perception. 

But did sensation constitute all knowledge ? Was there noth¬ 
ing to guide man but the reports of his senses ? Democritus 
said there was Reflection .§ 

This Reflection was not the source of absolute truth, but ful- 


* ‘H roi ovdiv tlvai a\t]9ts rj t/puv y* aSrjXov. 'OAwj Se Sia to i)vo\an(idvtiv (p(>6- 
W<Tiv n(v rrjv ataBrjcriv Taortjv S' tlvai aWoluaiv, to <paiv6jjitvov Kara rrjv aitxQrjaiv 
avdyKrjs a\rj9i; tlvai. — Mctaph. iv. 5. 

+ Modern editors read berj, “ in reality.” "VVe are inclined however to pre¬ 
serve the old reading, as more antithetical to v6m $. 

X Adv. Maihem. vii. 163. ' , 

§ A idvoia : etymology, no less than psychology, justifies this translation. 







DEMOCRITUS. 


97 


filled a controlling office, and established certitude, as far as there 
could be certitude in human knowledge. And the existence of 
this Reflection was asserted very much in the style of the cele¬ 
brated addition to the aphorism, “Nothing is in the Mind which 
was not previously in the Senses,” when Leibnitz added, “ except 
the Mind itself.” Democritus, aware that most of our concep¬ 
tions are derived through the senses, was also aware that many 
of them were utterly independent, and in defiance of the Senses. 
Thus the “infinitely small” and the “infinitely great” escape 
Sense, but are affirmed by Reflection. So also the atoms which 
his Reason told him were the primary elements of things, he 
could never have known by Sense. 

Thus far we have seen Democritus only as the inheritor 
of Anaxagoras; but the epoch we are now considering was dis¬ 
tinguished by the greater attention bestowed on the origin of 
knowledge, and we may reasonably expect that Democritus had 
devoted considerable thought to the subject, and had originated 
some view of his own. 

He was not content with the theory of Anaxagoras. There 
were difficulties which remained unsolved by it; which, indeed, 
had never been appreciated. This was the grand problem Democ¬ 
ritus set himself to solve: How do we perceive external things ? 
It is no answer to say that we perceive them by the senses. 
This is no better an explanation than that of the occult quality 
of opium, given by Moliere’s physician: “ L’opium endormit parce 
qu’il a une vertu soporifique.” The question arises— How is it 
that the senses perceive ? 

No one had asked this question; to have asked it, was to form 
an era in the history of Philosophy. Men began by reasoning 
on the reports of the senses, unsuspicious of error; when they 
saw any thing, they concluded that what they saw existed, and 
existed as they saw it. Afterwards came others who began to 
question the accuracy of the senses. Lastly, came those who 
denied that accuracy altogether, and pronounced the reports to 


98 


DEMOCRITUS. 


be mere delusions. Thus the question forced itself on the mind 
of Democritus—In -what manner could the senses perceive ex¬ 
ternal things ? Once settle the modus operandi, and then the 
real efficacy of the senses may be estimated. 

The hypothesis by which he attempted to explain perception 
was both ingenious and bold; and many centuries elapsed before 
a better one was suggested. He supposed that all things were 
constantly throwing off images of themselves (el'&oXa,) which, 
after assimilating to themselves the surrounding air, enter the 
soul by the pores of the sensitive organ. The eye, for example, 
is composed of aqueous humors; and water sees. But how does 
water see ? It is diaphanous, and receives the image of what¬ 
ever is presented to it. 

This is a very rude and material hypothesis; but did not 
philosophers, for centuries, believe that their senses received im¬ 
pressions of things ? and did they not suppose that images of 
things were reflected in the mind? This latter hypothesis 
is, perhaps, less obviously fantastic and gratuitous; but it is 
also less tenable; for how is it that the mind becomes a mirror 
reflecting the images ? The hypothesis stands as much in need 
of explanation as the phenomenon it pretends to explain. 

The hypothesis of Democritus, once admitted, serves its pur¬ 
pose ; at least, to a considerable extent. Only the external 
surface of a body is thrown off in the shape of an sjtfwXov or im¬ 
age, and even that only imperfectly and obscurely. The figure 
thrown off is not a perfect image of the object throwing it off. 
It is only an image of the external form, and is subject to varia¬ 
tions in its passage to the mind. This being the case, the strictly 
phenomenal nature of all knowledge is accurately exhibited. The 
idols or images, being themselves imperfect, our knowledge is 
necessarily imperfect. 

With this theory of knowledge how could he answer the 
other, greater, question of Creation ? It is said that he rejected 
The One of the Eleatics, The four of Empedocles, and the Ho- 


DEMOCRITUS. 


99 


moeomerice of Anaxagoras, and declared Atoms , invisible and 
intangible, to be tlie primary elements;, and that all things were 
but modes of one of the triple arrangements, namely, configura¬ 
tion , combination , and position . The atom, being indivisible, is 
necessarily one ; and, being one, is necessarily self-existent. By 
this hypothesis, therefore, Democritus satisfied the demands of 
those who declared that the self-existent must be One; and 
of those who declared that there were many things existing, and 
that the One could never be more than the One, never become 
the Many. He amalgamated the Ionian and Eleatic schools in 
his speculation, correcting both. He, doubtless, derived this 
idea from the homoeomerice of Anaxagoras; or, as those who place 
Anaxagoras later than Democritus would say, originated this 
idea. It becomes a question, therefore, which of these specula¬ 
tions bears the impress of greater maturity. On this question we 
cannot hesitate to pronounce. The idea of homoeomerice betrays 
its more primitive nature in this—it attributes positive qualities 
to atoms, which qualities are not changed or affected by com¬ 
bination or arrangement. The idea of the atom divested of all 
quality, and only assuming that quality as phenomenal when in 
combination with other atoms, and changing its quality with 
every change of combination, is indubitably a far more scientific 
speculation; it is also obviously later in point of development. 

From the axiom that only “like can act upon like,” Anaxag¬ 
oras formed his homoeomerice. Democritus accepted the axiom, 
but gave it a wider application. If only like can act upon like, 
said he, then must all things be alike in esse ; and the only dif¬ 
ferences are those of phenomena, i. e. of manifestation ; these de¬ 
pend on combination and arrangement. 

Atomism is homoeomerianism stripped of qualities. It is there¬ 
fore the system of Anaxagoras greatly improved. 

The Atomism of Democritus has not been sufficiently appre¬ 
ciated as a speculation. It is one of the profoundest yet reached 
by human subtlety. Leibnitz, many centuries afterwards, was 



) . » 


t ■ 
i ) y 


100 


DEMOCRITUS. 


led to a doctrine essentially similar; liis celebrated “Monadolo- 
gie” is but Atomism, with a new terminology. Leibnitz called 
his Monad a force , which to him was the prima materia. So 
also Democritus denied that atoms had any weight; they had 
only force, and it was the impulsion given by superior force 
which constituted weight. It is worthy of remark that not only 
did these thinkers concur in their doctrine of atomism, but also, 
as we have seen, in their doctrine of the origin of knowledge : a 
coincidence which gives weight to the supposition that in both 
minds one doctrine was dependent on the other. 

From what has already been said, the reader may estimate 
Ritter’s assertion, that it would be in vain to seek for any pro¬ 
founder view in the theory of Democritus than that common to all 
mechanical physicists who sought to reduce every thing to math¬ 
ematical conceptions: an assertion as preposterous as that which 
follows it, namely, that Democritus arrived at his atomic theory 
in the same way as modern physicists,—from a bias for the me¬ 
chanical consideration of Nature. Ritter here contradicts himself. 
Having first declared that there was nothing in the Democritian 
theory but what the Ionians had previously discovered, he next 
declares that this theory is the same as that of the modern atomic 
theory. We are puzzled to which decision we shall award the 
palm of historical misconception. The modern atomic theory is 
the law of definite proportions ; the ancient theory is merely the 
affirmation of indefinite combinations. Between these two con¬ 
ceptions there is precisely the difference between Positive Science 
and Philosophy. Instead of being similar conceptions, they were 
neither arrived at in the same way, nor have they the same sig¬ 
nification. 

Attempts have been made, from certain expressions attributed 
to Democritus, to deduce an Intelligence, somewhat similar tc 
that in the Anaxagorean doctrine, as the Formative Principle. 
But the evidence is so small and so questionable, that we refrain 
from pronouncing on it. Certain it is that he attributed the 


DEMOCRITUS. 


101 


formation of things to Destiny; but whether that Destiny was 
intelligent or not is uncertain. 

In conclusion, we may observe that his system was an advancs 
on that of his predecessors. In the two great points of psychol¬ 
ogy and physics, which we have considered at length, it is im¬ 
possible to mistake a very decided progress, as well as the open¬ 
ing of a new line in each department. 


THIRD EPOCH. 


INTELLECTUAL CRISIS. —THE INSUFFICIENCY OF ALL AT- 
TEMPTS TOWARDS A SOLUTION OF THE PROBLEM OF EX¬ 
ISTENCE, AS WELL AS THAT OF KNOWLEDGE, PRODUCES 
THE SOPHISTS. 


CHAPTER I. 

THE SOPHISTS. 

§ I. What were they? 

The Sophists are a much calumniated race. That they should 
have been so formerly is not surprising; that they should be so 
still, is an evidence that historical criticism is yet in its infancy. 
In raising our voices to defend them we are aware of the para¬ 
dox ; but looked at nearly, the paradox is greater on the side ot 
those who credit and repeat the traditional account. In truth, 
we know of few charges so unanimous, yet so paradoxical, as that 
brought against the Sophists.* It is as if mankind had consented 
to judge of Socrates by the representation of him in The Clouds. 
The caricature of Socrates by Aristophanes is quite as near the 


* It is proper to state that the novel view of the position and character of 
the Sophists advanced in this Chapter was published five years before the 
admirable Chapter of Mr. Grote’s History of Greece , wherein that erudite 
and thoughtful writer brings his learning and sagacity to the most thorough 
elucidation of the question it has yet received. In claiming priority in this 
point of historical criticism, it is right for me to acknowledge that Mr. Grote 
substantiates his view with overwhelming force of argument and citation; 
and in revising the present Chapter, I have been much indebted to his 
criticisms and citations. 




THE SOPHISTS. 


103 


(Jruth as the caricature of the Sophists by Plato ;* with this dif¬ 
ference, that in the one case it was inspired by political, in the 
other by speculative antipathy. 

On the Sophists we have only the testimony of antagonists; 
and the history of mankind clearly proves that the enmities 
which arise from difference of race and country are feeble com¬ 
pared with the enmities which arise from difference of creed : 
the former may be lessened by contact and intercourse; the lat¬ 
ter are only aggravated. Plato had every reason to dislike the 
Sophists and their opinions ; he therefore lost no occasion of 
ridiculing the one and misrepresenting the other. And it is 
worthy of especial remembrance that this hostility was peculiarly 
Platonic, and not Socratic; for, as Mr. Grote reminds us, there is 
no such marked antithesis between Socrates and the Sophists in 
the biographical work of Xenophon. Plato, however, and those 
who followed Plato, misrepresented the Sophists, as in all ages 
antagonists have misrepresented each other. 

The Sophists were wealthy; the Sophists were powerful; the 
Sophists were dazzling, rhetorical, and not profound. Interrogate 
human nature—above all, the nature of philosophers—and ask 
what will be the sentiment entertained respecting these Sophists 
by their rivals. Ask the solitary thinker what is his opinion of 
the showt 7 , powerful, but shallow rhetorician who usurps the at¬ 
tention of the world. The man of convictions has at all times a 
superb contempt for the man of mere oratorical or dialectical dis¬ 
play. The thinker knows that the world is ruled by Thought; 
yet he sees Expression gaining the world’s attention. lie knows, 
perhaps, that he has within him thoughts pregnant with human 
welfare; yet he sees the giddy multitude intoxicated with the 
enthusiasm excited by some plausible fallacy, clothed in enchant¬ 
ing language. He sees through the fallacy, but cannot make 
others as clear-sighted. His warning is unheeded ; his wisdom 
is spurned; his ambition is frustrated: the popular Idol is carried 

* See in particular that amusing dialogue, the Euthydemus , which is quite 
as exaggerated as Aristophanes. 



THE SOPHISTS. 


104 

onward in triumph. The neglected thinker would not be human 
if he bore this with equanimity. He does not. He is loud and 
angry in lamenting the fate of a world that can so be led; loud 
and angry in his contempt of one who could so lead it. Should 
he become the critic or historian of his age, what exactness ought 
we to expect in his account cf the popular idol ? 

Somewhat of this kind was the relation in which the Sophists 
and Philosophers stood to each other. 

The Sophists were hated by some because they were powerful, 
by others because shallow ; and were misrepresented by all. In 
later times their antagonism to Socrates has brought them ill- 
will ; and this ill-will was strengthened by the very prejudice of 
the name. Could a Sophist be other than a cheat and a liar ? 
As well ask, could a Devil be other than Evil ? In the name of 
Sophist all odious qualities are implied, and this implication per¬ 
verts our judgment. Call the Sophists Professors of Rhetoric, 
which is their truest designation, and then examine their history; 
it will produce a very different impression. 

Much discussion has been devoted to the meaning of the word 
Sophist, and to the supposed condemnation it everywhere carried. 
“ A Sophist, in the genuine sense of the word, was a wise man, a 
clever man, one who stood prominently before the public as dis¬ 
tinguished for intellect or talent of some kind. Thus Solon and 
Pythagoras are both called Sophists; Thamyras, the skilful bard, 
is called a Sophist; Socrates is so denominated, not merely by 
Aristophanes, but by JEschines. Aristotle himself calls Aristip¬ 
pus, and Xenophon calls Antisthenes, both of them disciples of 
Socrates, by that name. Xenophon, in describing a collection of 
instructive books, calls them the writings of the old poets and 
Sophists. Plato is alluded to as a Sophist even by Isocrates; 
Isocrates himself was harshly criticised as a Sophist, and defends 
both himself and his profession. Lastly, Timon, who bitterly sat¬ 
irized all the philosophers, designated them all, including Plato 
and Aristotle, by the general name of Sophists.”* This proves 


* Grote, viii. 480. 



THE SOPHISTS. 


105 


the vagueness with which the term was employed: a like dis¬ 
crepancy might be detected in the modern use of the word “ met¬ 
aphysician,” which is a term of honor or reproach, according tc 
the speaker. Zeller says that the specific name of Sophist at 
first merely designated one who taught philosophy for pay. The 
philosophy might be good or bad; the characteristic designated 
by the epithet Sophistical was its demand of money-fees. The 
narrower meaning was given it by Plato and Aristotle.* It mat¬ 
ters little, however, what was the meaning attached to the name. 
Even were it proved that “ Sophist” was as injurious in those 
days as “ Socialist” in our own, it would no more prove that the 
Sophists really taught the doctrines attributed to them, than the 
mingled terror and detestation with which “ Socialist doctrines” 
are described in almost all modern journals, pamphlets, speeches, 
and reviews, prove that the Socialists really teach what is there 
imputed to them. 

We said it was a paradox to maintain that the Sophists really 
promulgated the opinions usually attributed to them; and by 
this we mean that not only are some of those opinions nothing 
but caricatures of what was really maintained, but also that, in 
our interpretation of the others, we grossly err, by a confusion of 
Christian with Heathen views of morality. Moderns cannot help 
regarding as fearfully immoral, ideas which by the Greeks were 
regarded as moral, or at least as not disreputable. For instance : 
the Greek orators are always careful to impress upon their au¬ 
dience, that in bringing a charge against any one they are actu¬ 
ated by the strongest personal motives; that they have been in¬ 
jured by the accused; that they have good honest hatred as a 
motive for accusing him. Can any thing be more opposite to 
Christian feeling ? A Christian accuser is just as anxious to ex¬ 
tricate himself from any charge of being influenced by personal 
considerations, as the Greek was of making the contrary evident. 
A Christian seeks to place his motive to the account of abstract 
justice ; and his statement would be received with great suspicion 


* Philosophise der Griechen, erster Theil, 1856, p. 750. 




106 


THE SOPHISTS. 


were it known that a personal feeling prompted it. The reason 
of this difference is, that the Christian Ethics do not countenance 
vengeance ; the Greek Ethics not only countenanced vengeance, 
but very much reprobated informers: consequently, whoevei 
made an accusation had to clear himself from the ignominy 
of being an informer, and to do so he showed his personal 
motives. 

This example will prepare the reader to judge, without pre¬ 
cipitancy, the celebrated boast attributed to the Sophists, that 
they could “ make the worse appear the better reason.” This 
was said to be the grand aim of their endeavors. This was 
called their avowed object. To teach this art, it is said, they 
demanded enormous sums; and to learn it enormous sums were 
readily given, and given by many. 

These assertions are severally false. We will take the last first. 

It is not true that enormous sums were demanded. Isocrates af¬ 
firms that their gains were never very high, but had been mali- . 
ciously exaggerated, and were very inferior to the gains of dra¬ 
matic actors. Plato, a less questionable authority on such a 
point, makes Protagoras describe his system of demanding re¬ 
muneration: “I make no stipulation beforehand; when a pupil 
parts from me, I ask from him such a sum as I think the time 
and the circumstances warrant; and I add, that if he deems the 
demand too great, he has only to make up his own mind what is 
the amount of improvement which my company has procured to 
him, and what sum he considers an equivalent for it. I am con¬ 
tent to accept the sum so named by himself, only requiring him 
to go into a Temple and make oath that it is his sincere belief.” 
Plato objects to this, and to every other mode of “ selling wis¬ 
dom but, as Mr. Grote remarks, “ such is not the way in which 
the corrupters of mankind go to work.” 

But let us waive the question of payment, to consider the 
teaching paid for. The Sophists, it is said, and believed, boasted 
that they could teach the art of making the worse appear the 
better reason; and in one sense this is true; but understanding 


THE SOPHISTS. 


107 


this art as moderns have understood it , and thereby forming our 
notion of the Sophists, let us ask, Is it credible that such an art 
should have been avowed, and, being avowed, should be rewarded, 
in a civilized state ? Let us think, for an instant, of what are its 
moral, or rather immoral, consequences. Let us reflect how 
utterly it destroys all morality ; how it makes the very laws but 
playthings for dialectical subtlety. Then let us ask whether, as 
we understand it, any State could have allowed such open blas¬ 
phemy, such defiance of the very fundamental principle of hon¬ 
esty and integrity, such demolition of the social contract. 

Could any State do this? and was Athens that State? We 
ask the reader to realize for himself some notion of the Athenians 
as citizens, not merely as statues; to think of them as human 
beings, full of human passions, not simply as architects, sculptors, 
poets, and philosophers. Having done this, we ask him whether 
he can believe that these Athenians would have listened to a 
man proclaiming all morality a farce, and all law a quibble— 
proclaiming that for a sum of money he could instruct any one 
how to make an unjust cause appear a just one? Would not 
such a proclamation be answered with a shout of derision, or of 
execration, according to the belief in his sincerity ? Could any 
charlatan, in the corruptest age, have escaped lapidation for such 
effrontery ? Yet the Sophists were wealthy, by many greatly 
admired, and were selected as ambassadors on very delicate mis¬ 
sions. They were men of splendid talents, of powerful connec¬ 
tions. Around them flocked the rich and noble youth of every 
city they entered. They were the intellectual leaders of their 
age. If they had been what their adversaries describe them, 
Greece could only have been an earthly Pandemonium, where 
Belial was King. 

To believe this is beyond our power. Indeed such a paradox 
it would be frivolous to refute, had it not been maintained for 
centuries. Some have endeavored to escape it by maintaining 
that the Sophists were held in profound contempt; and certain 
passages are adduced from Plato in proof thereof. But the fact 


108 


THE SOPHISTS. 


appears to us to be tlie reverse of this. The wealth and powei 
of the Sophists—the very importance implied in Plato’s constant 
polemic against them—prove that they were not objects of con¬ 
tempt. Objects of aversion they might be to one party: the 
successful always are. Objects of contempt they might be, to 
some sincere and profound thinkers. The question here, how¬ 
ever, is not one relating to individuals, but to the State. It is 
not whether Plato despised Gorgias, but whether Athens allowed 
him to teach the most unblushing and undisguised immorality. 
There have been daring speculators in all times. There have 
been men shameless and corrupt. But that there has been any 
speculator so daring as to promulgate what he knew to be gross¬ 
ly immoral, and so shameless as to avow it, is in such contra¬ 
diction to our experience of human nature as at once to be re 
jected.* 

It is evident, therefore, that in teaching the art of “ making 
the worse appear the better reason,” the Sophists were not guilty 
of any thing held to be reprehensible; however serious thinkers, 
such as Plato and Aristotle, might detest the shallow philosophy 
from which it sprang. 

But if this art was not reprehensible, except to severe minds, 
such as Plato and Aristotle, it is clear that it could not have 
been the art which its antagonists and defamers have declared it 
to be. If, as we have shown, universal human nature would have 
rebelled against a teaching which was avowedly immoral, the 
fact that the Sophists were not stoned, but were highly consider¬ 
ed and well paid, is proof that their teaching was either not what 
we are told it was, or that such teaching was not considered im¬ 
moral by the Greeks. Both of these negatives will be found 
true. The teaching of the Sophists was demonstrably not what 


* We are told by Sextus that Protagoras was condemned to death by 
the Athenians, because he professed himself unable to say whether the 
Gods existed, or what they were, owing to the insufficiency of knowledge. 
Yet the Athenians are supposed to have tolerated the Sophists as they are 
understood by moderns ! 



THE SOPHISTS. 


109 


is usually attributed to them, aud what they did teach was very 
far from being considered as immoral. Let us consider both 
these points. 

In the first place, Mr. Grote has shown beyond dispute that the 
Sophists had no doctrine in common; they formed no sect or 
school of thought, such as modern Germans indicate under the 
name of Die Sophistik. There never was a Sophistik. Each 
teacher had his own doctrinal views, and was not more bound to 
the opinions of the others than a modern Barrister is bound to 
share the theology of the Bar, or than a modern teacher of Elo¬ 
cution is bound to vote on the same side with all other profes' 
sors. No sooner is this fact apprehended, than the absurdity of 
attributing to “ the Sophists” opinions expressed by one Sophist, 
and that too in a caricature by Plato, is at once apparent. More¬ 
over, the absurdity of talking of the “ sophistical doctrine ’' 1 be¬ 
comes apparent, and we are forced to speak only of the “ sophis¬ 
tical art ” reserving for any special animadversion the special 
name of the offending sinner. 

The Sophists taught the art of disputation. The litigious 
quibbling nature of the Greeks was the soil on which an art like 
that was made to flourish. Their excessive love of law r suits is 
familiar to all versed in Grecian history. The almost farcical 
representation of a lawsuit given by ^Eschylus in his otherwise 
awful drama, The Eumenides, shows with what keen and lively 
interest the audience witnessed even the very details of litigation. 
For such an appetite food would not long be wanting. Corax 
aud Tisias wrote precepts of the art of disputation. Protagoras 
followed with dissertations on the most remarkable points of 
law ; and Gorgias composed a set accusation and apology for 
every case that could present itself. People, in short, were- 
taught to be their own advocates. 

This was by no means an immoral art. If it might or did' 
lead to immorality, few Greeks would have quarrelled with an 
art so necessary. “ Without some power of persuading or con¬ 
futing, or defending himself against accusations, or, in case of. 

10 


110 


THE SOPHISTS. 


need, accusing others, no man could possibly hold an ascendant 
position. He had probably not less need of this talent for private 
informal conversations to satisfy his own political partisans, than 
for addressing the public assembly formally convoked. Even 
commanding an army or a fleet, without any laws of war or 
habit of discipline, his power of keeping up the good-humor, 
confidence, and prompt obedience of his men, depended not a lit¬ 
tle on his command of speech. Nor was it only to the leaders 
in political life that such an accomplishment was indispensable. 
In all democracies, and probably in several Governments which 
were not democracies but oligarchies of an open character, the 
courts of justice were more or less numerous, and the procedure 
oral and public; in Athens especially the Dicasteries were both 
very numerous and were paid for attendance. Every citizen had 
to go before them in person, without being able to send a paid 
advocate in his place, if he either required redress for wrong 
offered to himself, or was accused of wrong by another. There 
was no man therefore who might not be cast or condemned, or 
fail in his own suit, even with right on his side, unless he pos¬ 
sessed some power of speech to unfold his case to the Dicasts, as 
well as to confute the falsehoods and disentangle the sophistry 
of an opponent. To meet such liabilities, from which no citizen, 
rich or poor, was exempt, a certain training in speech became 
not less essential than a certain trainino- in arms.”* Thus was 

O 

it that even quibbling ingenuity, “ making the worse appear the 
better reason,” became a sort of virtue, because it was obtained 
only by that mastery over argument which was the Athenian’s 
ambition and necessity. We can send a paid advocate to quibble 
for us, and do not therefore need such argumentative subtlety. 
But let us ask, are barristers pronounced the “ corruptors of man¬ 
kind,” and is their art called the art of “ making the worse appear 
the better reason,” as if that, and that alone, were the purport ol 
all pleading? Yet, in defending a criminal, does not every bar- 


* Grote, viii. 463-4. 




THE SOPHISTS. 


Ill 


rister exert liis energy, eloquence, subtlety, and knowledge “ to 
make the worse appear the better reason ?” Do we reprobate 
Sergeant Talfourd or Sir Frederick Thesiger, if they succeed in 
gaining their client’s cause, although that cause be a bad one ? 
On the contrary, the badness of the cause makes the greatness of 
the triumph. 

Now let us suppose Sergeant Talfourd to give lessons in foren¬ 
sic oratory; suppose him to announce to the world, that for a 
certain sum he would instruct any man in the whole art of ex¬ 
position and debate, of the interrogation of witnesses, of the tricks 
and turning-points of the law, so that the learner might become 
his own advocate: this would be contrary to legal etiquette; 
but would it be immoral ? Grave men might, perhaps, object 
that Mr. Talfourd was offering to make men cheats and scamps, 
by enabling them to make the worse appear the better reason. 
But this is a consequence foreseen by grave men, not acknowl¬ 
edged by the teacher. It is doubtless true that owing to oratory, 
ingenuity, and subtlety, a scamp’s cause is sometimes gained; 
but it is also true that many an honest man’s cause is gained, 
and many a scamp frustrated, by the same means. If forensic 
oratory does sometimes make the worse appear the better reason, 
it also makes the good appear in all its strength. The former is 
a necessary evil, the latter is the very object of a court of justice. 
“ If,” says Callicles, in defence of Gorgias, to Socrates, “ any one 
should charge you with some crime which you had not commit¬ 
ted, and carry you off to prison, you would gape and stare, and 
would not know what to say; and, when brought to trial, how¬ 
ever contemptible and weak your accuser might be, if he chose 
to indict you capitally, you would perish. Can this be wisdom, 
which, if it takes hold of a gifted man, destroys the excellence of 
nis nature, rendering him incapable of preserving himself and 
others from the greatest dangers, enabling his enemies to plunder 
him of all his property, and reducing him to the situation of 
those who, by a sentence of the Court, have been deprived of all 
their rights ?” 


112 


THE SOPHISTS. 


If it be admitted that Sergeant Talfourd’s instruction in foren- 
sic oratory would not be immoral, however unusual, we havo 
only to extend'the sphere and include politics, and represent to 
ourselves the democratic state of Athens, where demagogues 
were ever on the alert, and we shall be fully persuaded that the 
art of the Sophists was not considered immoral; and, as further 
proof, we select the passage in Plato’s Republic , as coming from 
an unexceptionable source. 

Socrates, speaking of the mercenary teachers whom the people 
call Sophists, says: “ These Sophists teach them only the things 
which the people themselves profess in assemblies ; yet this they 
call wisdom. It is as if a man had observed the instincts and 
appetites of a great and powerful beast, in what manner to 
approach it, how or why it is ferocious or calm, what cries it 
makes, what tones appease and what tones irritate it; after 
having learnt all this, and calling it wisdom, commenced teach¬ 
ing it without any knowledge of what is good, just, shameful and 
unjust among these instincts and appetites; but calling that 
good which flatters the animal, and that bad which irritates it; 
because he knows not the difference between what is good in 
itself and that which is only relatively good.”* 

There is the usual vein of caricature in this description (which 
is paraphrased in the Quarterly Review,\ and there given as if 
the undoubted and unexaggerated doctrines of the Sophists); 
but it very distinctly sets forth the fact that the Sophists did not 
teach any thing contrary to public morals, however their art may 
have offended abstract morality. Indeed the very fact of their 
popularity would prove that they did but respond to a public 
want; and because they responded to this want they were paid 
by the public in money. Plato constantly harps upon their be¬ 
ing mercenaries; but he was wealthy, and could afford such sar¬ 
casms. The Greeks paid their Musicians, Painters, Sculptors, 
Physicians, Poets, and Teachers in Schools; why therefore 


* Plato, Rep. vi. 291. 


t No. xlii. p. 2S8. 



THE SOPHISTS. 113 

should they not pay their Philosophers ? Zeno of Elea was 
paid; so was Democritus; but both of these have been some¬ 
times included amongst the Sophists. We see nothing what¬ 
ever more derogatory in the acceptance of money by Philoso¬ 
phers than by Poets; and we know how the latter stipulated 
for handsome payment. 

Having done our best to show that the “ Sophistical art”— 
that aloue which the Sophists had in common—was not im¬ 
moral, or at any rate was not regarded as immoral by the Greeks, 
we will now see how the case stands with respect to the old 
accusation of their having corrupted the Athenian youth, and of 
their doctrines being essentially corrupting. 

That the Athenians did not consider the Sophists as corruptors 
of youth is unequivocally shown in two facts : they did not im¬ 
peach the Sophists, and they did impeach Socrates. When 
Anaxagoras and Protagoras “ sapped the foundations of morality” 
by expressing opinions contrary to the religion of Athens, they 
were banished; but who impeached Gorgias, or Ilippias, or 
Prodicus ? 

The art however may have been essentially corrupting, al¬ 
though to contemporaries it did not appear so. We believe it 
was so, if it is to be made responsible for all the consequences 
which can logically be deduced from it. But “ logical conse¬ 
quences” are unjust standards. Men are not responsible for 
what others may consider their doctrines “ lead to.” It was on 
the ground of such remote deduction that Socrates was put to 
death; and on such grounds the Sophists have been the by¬ 
word of reproach. Mr. Grote grapples directly with the fact, 
where he declares Athens at the close of the Peloponnesian war 
was not more corrupt than Athens in the days of Miltiades and 
Aristides; and had it been more corrupt, we should demand 
quite other evidence than that usually alleged, before believing 
the corruption due to the Sophists. 

Why then did Plato speak of the Sophists with so much 
asperity ? Why did he consider their teaching so dangerous ? 


114 


THE SOPHISTS. 


Because he differed from them in toto. He hated them for the 
same reason that Calvin hated Servetus; but having a more 
generous nature than Calvin, his hatred of their doctrines did 
not assume so disgraceful a form. If his allegations are to con¬ 
demn the Sophists, they must equally condemn all the public men 
of that day. “ Whoever will read either the Gorgias or the Re¬ 
public , will see in how sweeping and indiscriminate a manner he 
passes the sentence of condemnation. Not only the Sophists 
and all the Rhetors, but all the Musicians and either Dithv- 
rambic or Tragic Poets, all the Statesmen past as well as present, 
not excepting even the great Pericles, receive from his hand 
one common stamp of dishonor.”* But so far is he from con¬ 
sidering the Sophists as peculiar corruptors of Athenian morality, 
“that he distinctly protests against that supposition in a remark¬ 
able passage of the Republic. It is, he says, the whole people or 
the society, with its established morality, intelligence, and tone 
of sentiment, which is intrinsically vicious; the teachers of such 
a society must be vicious also, otherwise their teaching w r ould 
not be received; and even if their private teaching were ever so 
good, its effect would be washed away, except in some few privi¬ 
leged natures, by overwhelming influences.”! 

The truth is that, in as far as the Sophists taught any doctrine 
at all, their doctrine was ethical; and to suppose men teaching- 
immoral ethics, i. e. systems of morality known by them to be 
immoral, is absurd. To clear up this point we must endeavor to 
ascertain what that doctrine w r as. 

Plato’s account is on the face of it a caricature, since it is im¬ 
possible that any man should have seriously entertained such a 
doctrine. What Protagoras and Gorgias thought is not given, 
but only a misrepresentation of what they thought. Plato seizes 
hold of one of their doctrines, and, interpreting it in his own 

* Grote, viii. 537. 

t Ibid. p. 59. The passage referred to is Ilepvib. vi. 492 (page 3S8, ed. 
Bekker), and the Sophists are mentioned by name as the teachers of whom 
it treats. 



THE SOPHISTS. 


115 


way, makes it lead to the most outrageous absurdity and im¬ 
morality. This is as if Berkeley’s doctrine had been transmitted 
to us by Beattie. Berkeley, it is well known, denied the exist¬ 
ence of the external world, resolving it into a simple world of 
ideas. Beattie taunted him with not having followed out his 
principles, and with not having walked over a precipice. This 
was a gross misrepresentation; an ignoratio elenchi; Beattie 
misunderstood the argument, and drew conclusions from his 
misunderstanding. Now suppose him to have written a dialogue 
on the plan of those of Plato: suppose him making Berkeley 
expound his argument in the way he (Beattie) interpreted it, 
with a flavor of exaggeration for the sake of effect, and of ab¬ 
surdity for the sake of easy refutation : how would he have made 
Berkeley speak ? Somewhat thus: “ Yes, I maintain that there is 
no such external existence as that which men vulgarly believe in. 
There is no world of matter, but only a world of ideas. If I 
were to walk over a precipice, I should receive no injury; it is 
only an ideal precipice.” 

This is the interpretation of a Beattie; how true it is most 
men know: it is, however, quite as true as Plato’s interpretation 
of the Sophists. From Berkeley’s works we can convict Beattie. 
Plato we can convict from experience of human nature: experi¬ 
ence tells us that no man, far less any set of men, could seriously, 
publicly, and constantly broach doctrines thought to be subver¬ 
sive of all morality, without incurring the heaviest penalties. 
To broach immoral doctrines with the faintest prospect of success, 
a man must do so in the name of rigid Morality. To teach 
immorality, and openly to avow that it is immoral, was, accord¬ 
ing to Plato, the office of the Sophists;* a statement which 
carries with it its own contradiction. 


* This passage in the Protagoras is often referred to as a proof of the 
shamelessness of the Sophists, and sometimes of the ill-favor with which 
they were regarded. It is to us only a proof of Plato’s tendency to caricature-. 



LI 6 


THE SOPHISTS. 


§ II. Protagoras. 

Nothing can be more erroneous than to isolate the Sophists 
from previous teachers, as if they were no direct product of the 
speculative efforts which preceded them. They illustrate the 
crisis at which philosophy had arrived. They took the negative , 
as Socrates took the positive issue out of the dilemma. 

Protagoras, the first who is said to have avowed himself a 
Sophist, was born at Abdera, where Democritus first noticed him 
as a porter, who showed great address in inventing the knot.* 
The consequence was that Democritus gave him instructions in 
Philosophy. The story is apocryphal, but indicates a connection 
to have existed between the speculations of the two thinkers. 
Let us suppose Protagoras to have accepted the doctrine of De¬ 
mocritus ; with him to have rejected the unity of the Eleatics 
and to have maintained the existence of the Many. With this 
he also learned that thought is sensation, and that all knowledge 
is therefore phenomenal. There were two theories in the Demo- 
critean system which he could not accept, viz. the Atomic and 
Reflective. These two imply each other. Reflection is necessary 
for the idea of Atoms; and it is from the idea of Atoms not per¬ 
ceived by the sense, that the existence of Reflection is proved. 
Protagoras rejected the Atoms, and could therefore reject Reflec¬ 
tion. He said that Thought was Sensation, and all knowledge 
consequently individual. 

Did not the place of his birth no less than the traditional story 
lead one to suppose some connection with Democritus, we might 
feel authorized to adopt certain expressions of Plato, and consider 
Protagoras to have derived his doctrine from Heraclitus. He 
certainly resembles the last-named in the main results to which 
his speculations led him. Be that as it may, the fact is unques- 

* What the precise signification of r6\t) is we are unable to say. A porter’s 
knot, such as is now used, is the common interpretation. Perhaps Pro¬ 
tagoras had contrived a sort of wooden machine such as the glazier’s use, 
and which is used by the porters in Greece and Italy to this day. 



PROTAGORAS. 


117 


tionable, that he maintained the doctrine of Thought being iden¬ 
tical with and limited by Sensation. Now, this doctrine implies 
that every thing is true relatively —every sensation is a true sen¬ 
sation ; and, as there is nothing but sensation, knowledge is in¬ 
evitably fleeting and imperfect. In a melancholy mind, as in 
that of Heraclitus, such a doctrine would deepen sadness, till it 
produced despair. In minds of greater elasticity, in men of greater 
confidence, such a doctrine would lead to an energetic skepticism. 
In Protagoras it became the formula: “Man is the measure of 
all things.” 

Sextus Empiricus gives the psychological doctrine of Protago¬ 
ras very explicitly; and his account may be received without 
suspicion. We translate a portion of it: 

“Matter,” says Protagoras, “is in a perpetual flux ;* whilst it 
undergoes augmentations and losses, the senses also are modified, 
according to the age and disposition of the body.” He said, also, 
that the reasons of all phenomena ( appearances ) resided in mat¬ 
ter as substrata (roig "Koyovg rtavruv <rojv (puivoysvuv vrfoyceTtf&oLi iv <nf 
; so that matter, in itself, might be whatever it appeared to 
each. But men have different perceptions at different times, ac¬ 
cording to the changes in the thing perceived. Whoever is in a 
healthy state perceives things such as they appear to all others 
in a healthy state, and vice versd. A similar course holds w 7 ith 
respect to different ages, as well as in sleeping and waking. Man 
is therefore the criterion of that which exists; all that is perceiv¬ 
ed by him exists, that which is perceived by no man does not 
exist”f 

Now, conceive men conducted by what they thought irresisti¬ 
ble arguments to such a doctrine as the above, and then see how 
naturally all the skepticism of the Sophists flows from it. The 
difference between the Sophists and the Skeptics was this: they 

* Tt]v vXrjv ptvarfiv tlvai , an expression which, if not borrowed by Sextus 
from Plato, would confirm the conjecture above respecting Heraclitus, aa 
the source of Protagoras’s system, 
t ITypot. Pyrrhon. p. 44. 



118 


THE SOPHISTS. 


were both convinced of the insufficiency of all knowledge, but 
the Skeptics contented themselves with the conviction, while 
the Sophists, satisfied with the vanity of all endeavor to pene¬ 
trate the mysteries of the universe, began to consider their rela¬ 
tions to other men: they devoted themselves to politics and 
rhetoric.* If there was no possibility of Truth, there only re¬ 
mained the possibility of Persuasion. If one opinion was as true 
as another—that is, if neither were true,—it was nevertheless de¬ 
sirable, for the sake of Society, that certain opinions should pre¬ 
vail ; and, if Logic was powerless, Rhetoric was efficient. Hence 
Protagoras is made to say, by Plato, that the wise man is the 
physician of the soul: he cannot indeed induce truer thoughts 
into the mind, since all thoughts are equally true; but he can 
induce healthier and more profitable thoughts. He can in the 
same way heal Society, since by the power of oratory he can in¬ 
troduce good useful sentiments in the place of those base and 
hurtful, j- 

This doctrine may be false ; but is it not a natural consequence 
of the philosophy of the epoch ? It may be immoral; but is it 
necessarily the bold and shameless immorality attributed to the 
Sophists ? To us it appears to be neither more nor less than the 
result of a sense of the radical insufficiency of knowledge. Pro¬ 
tagoras had spent his youth in the study of philosophy; he had 
found that study vain and idle ; he had utterly rejected it, and 
had turned his attention elsewhere. A man of practical ten¬ 
dencies, he wanted a practical result. Failing in this, he sought 
another path, firmly impressed with the necessity of having 
something more definite wherewith to enter the world of action. 
Plato could see no nobler end in life than that of contemplating 
Being,—than that of familiarizing the mind with the eternal 
Good, the Just, and the Beautiful,—of which all goodness, jus¬ 
tice, and beautiful things were the images. With such a view 
of life it was natural that he should despise the skepticism of the 

* See Plato’s definition of the sophistical art, SopJiista , p. 146. 

t Thecetetus , p. 228. 



PROTAGORAS. 


119 


Sophists. This skepticism is clearly set forth in the following 
passage from the speech of Callicles, in Plato’s Gorgias: 

“ Philosophy is a graceful thing when it is moderately culti¬ 
vated in youth ; hut, if any one occupies himself with it beyond 
the proper age, it ruins him ; for, however great may be his nat¬ 
ural capacity, if he philosophizes too long he must of necessity be 
inexperienced in all those things which one who would be great 
and eminent must be experienced in. He must be unacquainted 
with the laws of his country, and with the mode of influencing 
other men in the intercourse of life, whether private or public, 
and with the pleasures and passions of men; in short, with hu¬ 
man characters and manners. And w’hen such men are called 
upon to act, whether on a private or public occasion, they expose 
themselves to ridicule, just as politicians do when they come to 
your conversation, and attempt to cope with you in argument; 
for every man, as Euripides says, occupies himself with that in 
which he finds himself superior ; that in which he is inferior he 
avoids, and speaks ill of it, but praises what he excels in, think¬ 
ing that in doing so he is praising himself. The best thing, in 
my opinion, is to partake of both. It is good to partake of phi¬ 
losophy by way of education, and it is not ungraceful in a young 
man to philosophize. But, if he continues to do so when he 
grows older, he becomes ridiculous, and I feel towards him as I 
should towards a grown person who lisped and played at childish 
plays. When I see an old man still continuing to philosophize, 
I think he deserves to be flogged. However great his natural 
talents, he is under the necessity of avoiding the assembly and 
public places, where, as the poet says, men become eminent, and 
to hide himself, and to pass his life whispering to two or three 
striplings in a corner, but never speaking out any thing great, 
and bold, and liberal.” 

That Protagoras, no less than Prodicus,* was a teacher of ex- 

* Frodicus is especially excepted by Aristophanes in his sweeping con¬ 
demnation of the Sophists ; and, indeed, the author of the well-known para¬ 
ble, The Choice of Hercules, must command the respect even of antagonists. 



120 


THE SOPHISTS. 


cellent morality, if not of the highest abstract views of the Good, 
is clearly made out, not only in Mr. Grote’s work, but in that of 
Zeller, where the Sophists are unfavorably treated on the whole,* 
and is indeed supported by the testimony of Plato and Xenophon. 
The ethics of the Sophists may not have been of a very lofty 
kind, but they were considered, even by enemies, to be adapted 
to the exigencies of the day. They doubted the possibility of 
Philosophy ; they were assured only of the advantage of Oratory. 
In their visits to various cities, they could not fail to remark 
the variety of laws and ordinances in the different States. 
This variety impressed them with a conviction that there were no 
such things as Right and Wrong by nature, but only by conven¬ 
tion. This, therefore, became a fundamental precept with them. 
It was but a corollary of their dogma respecting Truth. For 
man there was no Eternal Right, because there was no Eternal 
Truth ; ro Sixcuov xai <ro cuV^pov ou cpvcfsi clXXa, vo/xw : law w T as but 
the law of each city. “ That which appears just and honorable 
to each city, is so for that city , as long as the opinion is enter¬ 
tained,” says Protagoras in the Thecetetus (p. 229). This denial 
of abstract Truth and abstract Justice is easily pushed to absurd 
aud immoral consequences; but we have no evidence that such 
consequences were maintained by the Sophists. Plato often 
judges them by such consequences; but independently of the 
want of any confidence in his representations as faithful, w r e can 
often detect in Plato himself evidences of the exaggeration of his 
general statements. Thus, he on various occasions makes the 
Sophists maintain that Might is Right. Moderns, who always 
accept him as positive testimony, have therefore unanimously re¬ 
peated this statement. Yet, it is obvious that they could not 
have held this opinion except in a very qualified form. And, in 


* See Philos. <Ur Griechen , i. 775. In one of liis notes, Zeller alludes to 
Steinhart’s doubt respecting the authorship of the Myth, attributed by Plato 
to Protagoras, as being “ quite worthy of Plato himself.” This is very char¬ 
acteristic of the ordinary tone of commentators, and we may well ask with 
Zeller, “ Aber warum soli er fur Protagoras zu gut seyn ?” 



PROTAGORAS. 


121 


the first Book of the Republic, Thrasymachus the Sophist is made 
to explain his meaning; namely, that Justice is the law ordained 
by the party which is strongest in the State. Thus, in a democ¬ 
racy the enactments of the people are the laws : these laws are 
.’or their advantage ; therefore just. Now, in this admission, by 
Plato, of a qualification of the abstract formula, “ Might is Right,” 
we see evidence of that formula never having been promulgated 
by the Sophists; it was only an interpretation by Plato. What 
they meant was this : All law is but convention: the convention 
of each State is therefore just for it; and, inasmuch as any such 
convention must necessarily be ordained by the strongest party, 
i. e. must be the will of the many, so we may see that justice is 
but the advantage of the strongest. 

The foregoing will, we trust, suffice to show that the tenets 
attributed to them by Plato, are often caricatures, and admit of 
very different explanation. Well might Gorgias exclaim, on 
reading the Dialogue which bears his name, “ I did not recognize 
myself. The young man, however, has great talent for satire.” 

The Sophists were the natural production of the opinions of 
the epoch. In them we see the first energetic protest against the 
possibility of metaphysical science. This protest, however, must 
not be confounded with the protest of Bacon—must not be mis¬ 
taken for the germ of positive philosophy. It was the protest of 
baffled minds. The Philosophy of the day led to skepticism; 
but with Skepticism no energetic man could remain contented. 
Philosophy was therefore denounced, not because a surer, safer 
path of inquiry had been discovered, but because Philosophy was 
found to lead nowhither. The skepticism of the Sophists was a 
skepticism with which no great speculative intellect could be 
contented. Accordingly with Socrates Philosophy again re¬ 
asserted her empire. 


FOURTH EPOCH. 


A NEW ERA OPENED BY THE INVENTION OF A NEW 

METHOD. 


CHAPTER I. 

SOCRATES. 

§ I. The Life of Socrates. 

Whilst tlie brilliant Sophists were reaping money and renown 
by protesting against Philosophy, and teaching the word-jugglery 
which they called Disputation and Oratory, there suddenly ap¬ 
peared amongst them a strange antagonist. He was a perfect 
contrast to them. They had slighted Truth; they had denied 
her. He had made her his soul’s mistress; and, with patient 
labor, with untiring energy, did his large wise soul toil after per¬ 
fect communion with her. They had deserted Truth for Money 
and Renown. He had remained constant to her in poverty. 
They professed to teach every thing. He only knew that he 
knew nothing ; and denied that anything could be taught. Yet 
he believed he could be of service to his fellow-men; not by 
teaching, but by helping them to learn. His mission was to 
examine the thoughts of others. This he humorously explained 
by reference to his mother’s profession, namely that of a midwife. 
What she did for women in labor he could do for men pregnant 
with ideas. He was an accoucheur of ideas. He assisted ideas 
in their birth, and, having brought them into light, he examined 
them, to see if they were fit to live: if true, they were welcomed* 



THE LIFE OF SOCRATES. 


123 


if false, destroyed. And for this assistance he demanded no pe¬ 
cuniary recompense, but steadfastly refused every bribe of the 
kind. 

He was the declared questioner of all men who were renowned 
for wisdom, or any intellectual eminence; and they were some¬ 
what puzzled with their new antagonist. Who is he ?—Socrates, 
the son of Sophroniscus. What does he ?—Converse. For what 
purpose ?—To expose error. 

Some gorgeous Sophists, in their flowing robes, followed by 
crowds of eager listeners, treated the poor and humbly-clad Soc¬ 
rates with ineffable contempt. He was rude and ungainly in 
Ids movements; unlike all respectable citizens in his habits. 
Barefoot, he wandered about the streets of Athens absorbed in 
thought; sometimes he stood still for hours, fixed in meditation. 
Every day he strolled into the market-place, and disputed with 
all who were willing. In appearance he resembled a Silenus. 
His flattened nose, with wide and upturned nostrils, his project¬ 
ing eyeballs, his thick and sensual lips, his squab figure and un¬ 
wieldy belly, were all points upon which ridicule might fasten. 
Yet when this Silenus spoke there was a witchery in his tongue 
which fascinated those whom his appearance had disgusted; and 
Alcibiades declared that he was forced to stop his ears and flee 
away, that he might not sit down beside Socrates and “ grow old 
in listening to his talk.” Let us hear Alcibiades describe him.* 

“ I will begin the praise of Socrates by comparing him to a cer¬ 
tain statue. Perhaps he will think that this statue is introduced 
for the sake of ridicule; but I assure you that it is necessary for 
the illustration of truth. I assert, then, that Socrates is exactly 
like those Silenuses that sit in the sculptor’s shops, and which 
are carved holding flutes or pipes, but which, when divided in 
two, are found to contain withinside the images of the gods. I 
assert that Socrates is like the Satyr Marsyas; that your form 
and appearance are like these Satyrs, I think that even you will 


* Pluto, Symposium ,, Shelley’s translation. 




124 


SOCRATES. 


not venture to deny; and liovv like you are to them in all other 
things, now hear. Are you not scornful and petulant? If you 
deny this, I will bring witnesses. Are you not a piper, and far 
more wonderful a one than he ? for Marsyas, and whoever now 
pipes the music that he taught, that music which is of heaven, 
and described as being taught by Marsyas, enchants men through 
the power of the mouth; for, if any musician, be he skilful or 
not, awakens this music, it alone enables him to retain the minds 
of men, and from the divinity of its nature makes evident those 
who are in want of the Gods and initiation. You differ only 
from Marsyas in this circumstance, that you effect without instru¬ 
ments, by mere words, all that he can do; for, when we hear 
Pericles, or any other accomplished orator, deliver a discourse, 
no one, as it were, cares any thing about it. But when any one 
hears you, or even your words related by another, though ever so 
rude and unskilful a speaker, be that person a woman, man, or 
child, we are struck and retained, as it were, by the discourse 
clinging to our minds. 

“ If I was not afraid that I am a great deal too drunk, I would 
confirm to you by an oath the strange effects which I assure you 
I have suffered from his words, and suffer still; for, when I hear 
him speak, my heart leaps up far more than the hearts of those 
who celebrate the Corybantic Mysteries; my tears are poured 
out as he talks—a thing I have seen happen to many others be¬ 
sides myself. I have heard Pericles and other excellent orators, 
and have been pleased with their discourses, but I suffered noth¬ 
ing of this kind; nor was my soul ever on those occasions dis¬ 
turbed and filled with self-reproach, as if it were slavishly laid 
prostrate. But this Marsyas here has often affected me in the* 
way I describe, until the life which I lead seemed hardly worth 
living. Do not deny it, Socrates ; for I well know that if even 
now I chose to listen to you, I could not resist, but should again 
suffer the same effects; for, my friends, he forces me to confess, 
that while I myself am still in want of many things, I neglect 
my own necessities, and attend to those of the Athenians. I stop 


THE LIFE OF SOCRATES. 


125 


my ears, therefore, as from the Sirens, and flee away as fast as 
possible, that I may not sit down beside him and grow old in 
listening to his talk; for this man has reduced me to feel the 
sentiment of shame, which I imagine no one would readily be¬ 
lieve was in me; he alone inspires me with remorse and awe; 
for I feel in his presence my incapacity of refuting what he says, 
or of refusing to do that which he directs; but, when I depart 
from him, the glory which the multitude confers overwhelms me. 
I escape, therefore, and hide myself from him, and when I see 
him I am overwhelmed with humiliation, because I have neglect¬ 
ed to do what I have confessed to him ought to be done ; and 
often and often have I wished that he were no longer to be seen 
among men. But, if that were to happen, I well know that I 
should suffer far greater pain; so that where I can turn, or what 
I can do with this man, I know not. All this have I and many 
others suffered from the pipings of this Satyr. 

“ And observe how like he is to what I said, and what a won¬ 
derful power he possesses. I know that there is not one of you 
who is aware of the real nature of Socrates; but since I have be¬ 
gun, I will make him plain to you. You observe how passion¬ 
ately Socrates affects the intimacy of those who are beautiful, 
and how ignorant he professes himself to be; appearances in 
themselves excessively Silenic. This, my friends, is the external 
form with which, like one of the sculptured Sileni, he has clothed 
himself; for, if you open him, you will find within admirable 
temperance and wisdom : for he cares not for mere beauty, but 
despises more than any one can imagine all external possessions, 
whether it be beauty, or wealth, or glory, or any other thing for 
which the multitude felicitates the possessor. He esteems these 
things, and us who honor them, as nothing, and lives among 
men, making all the objects of their admiration the playthings of 
his irony. But I know not if any one of you have ever seen the 
divine images which are within, when he has been opened and 
is serious. I have seen them, and they are so supremely beauti¬ 
ful, so golden, so divine and w r onderful, that every thing which 
11 


126 


SOCRATES. 


Socrates commands surelv ought to be obeved, even like the voice 
of a God. 

“ Many other and most wonderful qualities might well be 
praised in Socrates, but such as these might singly be attributed 
to others. But that which is unparalleled in Socrates is, that he 
is unlike, and above comparison with all other men, whether 
those who have lived in ancient times, or those who exist now; 
for, it may be conjectured, that Brasidas and many others are 
such as was Achilles. Pericles deserves comparison with Xestor 
and Antenor; and other excellent persons of various times may, 
with probability, be drawn into comparison with each other. 
But to such a singular man as this, both himself and his dis¬ 
courses are so uncommon, no one, should he seek, would find a 
parallel among the present or the past generations of mankind; 
unless they should say that he resembled those with whom I 
lately compared him; for, assuredly, he and his discourses are 
like nothing but the Sileni and the Satyrs. At first I forgot to 
make you observe how like his discourses are to those Satyrs 
when they are opened; for, if any one will listen to the talk of 
Socrates, it will appear to him at first extremely ridiculous; the 
phrases and expressions which he employs fold around his exte¬ 
rior the skin, as it were, of a rude and wanton Satyr. He is al- 
wavs talking about brass-founders, and leather-cutters, and skin- 
dressers; and this is his perpetual custom, so that any dull and 
unobservant person might easily laugh at his discourse. But, if 
any one should see it opened, as it were, and get within the sense 
of his words, he would then find that thev alone of all that enters 
into the mind of man to utter, had a profound and persuasive 
meaning, and that they were most divine; and that they pre¬ 
sented to the mind innumerable images of every excellence, and 
that they tended towards objects of the highest moment, or rather 
towards all that he who seeks the possession of what is supremely 
beautiful and good need regard as essential to the accomplish¬ 
ment of his ambition. 

“ These are the things, my friends, for which I praise Socrates.” 


THE LIKE OF SOCKATES. 


127 


This Silenus was the most formidable antagonist that the Soph¬ 
ists had encountered; but this is small praise for him who w T as 
hereafter to become one of the most reverenced names in the 
world’s Pantheon—who was to give a new impulse to the human 
mind, and leave, as an inheritance to mankind, the grand exam¬ 
ple of an heroic life devoted to Truth and crowned with mar¬ 
tyrdom. 

Every thing about Socrates is remarkable—personal appear¬ 
ance, moral physiognomy, position, object, method, life and 
death. Fortunately, his character and his tendencies have been 
so clearly pictured in the works of Plato and Xenophon, that al¬ 
though the portrait may be flattered, we are sure of its resem¬ 
blance. 

He was born n. c. 469, the son of Sophroniscus, a sculptor,'* 
and Phsenarete, a midwife. His parents, though poor, managed, 
it is said, to give him the ordinary education. Besides which, 
he learned his father’s art; whether he made any progress in it 
w r e are unable to say: probably not, as he relinquished it early. 
A group of Graces, which tradition attributed to the chisel of 
Socrates, was exhibited for centuries among the art treasures of 
the Acropolis; but we have of course no means of determining 
the authenticity of the relic. Diogenes Laertius tells us that 
Crito, a wealthy Athenian, charmed with the manners of Soc¬ 
rates, is said to have withdrawn him from the shop, and to have 
educated him. This Crito afterwards became a reverential dis¬ 
ciple of the great genius he had discovered. 

Considering that we have his ow r n assertion as evidence of his 
having early studied Physics, for which he had an astonishing 
longing, and considering further that he so entirely relinquished 
that study, even declaring it to be impious,f it is of little impor¬ 
tance to discuss, with German critics, whether he did or did not 


* Dr. Wiggers says, that Timon the Sillograph calls Socrates, with a sneer, 
A(0o|oof, “a stone-scraper.” He forgets that hdo^oos was one of the names 
for a sculptor, as Lucian informs us in the account of his early life, 
t In Xenophon, “madness.”— Meraorab., lib. i. c. 1. 



128 


SOCRATES. 


learn from Arclielaus and Anaxagoras. That he learned oratory 
from Prodicus* is not discountenanced by the passage in Xeno¬ 
phon,f where he is made to say, “You despise me because you 
have squandered money upon Protagoras, Gorgias, Prodicus, and 
so many others, in return for their teaching; whereas I am forced 
to draw my philosophy from my own brainfor certainly, if 
any one can claim originality, it is Socrates : his philosophy he 
learned from no one. He struck into a new path. Instead of 
trying to account for the existence of the universe, he was ever 
craving, as Mr. Maurice well says, for a light to show him his 
own path through it.J 

He did not commence teaching till about the middle of his 
career. We have but few records of the events which filled up 
the period between his first leaving his father and his first teach¬ 
ing. One of these was his marriage with Xanthippe, and the 
domestic squabbles which ensued. She bore him three children. 
The violence of her temper, and the equanimity with which he 
submitted to it, are proverbial. She has become a type; her 
name is synonymous with Shrew. He gave a playful explana¬ 
tion of his choice by remarking, that “those who wish to become 
skilled in horsemanship select the most spirited horses; after 
being able to bridle those, they believe they can bridle all others. 
Now, as it is my wish to live and converse with men, I married 
this woman, being firmly convinced that in case I should be able 
to endure her, I should be able to endure all others.”§ 

Before he gave himself up to teaching, he performed military 
service in three battles, and distinguished himself in each. In 
the first, the prize of bravery was awarded to him. He relin¬ 
quished his claim in favor of Alcibiades, whom it might encour¬ 
age to deserve such honor. Various anecdotes are related of him 
during his campaigns. In spite of the severity of winter, when 
the ice and snow w*ere thick upon the ground, he went barefoot 

* Plato, Meno , p. 96. + Conmmum , i. 5. 

X Maurice, Moral and Metaphysical Philosophy , i. 113. 

§ Xenophou, Convivium, ii. 




THE LIFE OF SOCRATES. 


129 


and lightly clad. On one occasion he stood before the camp 
for four-and-twenty hours on the same spot, wrapt in medi¬ 
tation. Plato has given us a beautiful description of Soc¬ 
rates during the campaign, which we quote in the translation 
by Shelley: 

“ At one time we were fellow-soldiers, and had our mess to¬ 
gether in the camp before Potidaea. Socrates there overcame 
not only me, but every one besides, in endurance of toils: when, 
as happens in a campaign, w r e were reduced to few 7 provisions, 
there w r ere none w ho could sustain hunger hke Socrates: and, 
when we had plenty, he alone seemed to enjoy our military fare, 
lie never drank much willingly; but, when he was compelled, he 
conquered all even in that to w r hich he was least accustomed, 
and, what is most astonishing, no person ever saw Socrates drunk 
either then or at auy other time. In the depth of winter (and 
the winters there are excessively rigid) he sustained calmly in¬ 
credible hardships: and, amongst other things, whilst the frost 
was intolerably severe, and no one went out of their tents, or, if 
they w r eut out, wrapt themselves up carefully and put fleeces 
under their feet, and bound their legs with hairy skins, Socrates 
w r ent out only with the same cloak on that he usually wore, and 
walked barefoot upon the ice, more easily indeed than those who 
had sandalled themselves so delicately: so that the soldiers 
thought that he did it to mock their w r ant of fortitude. It would 
indeed be w T ortli while to commemorate all that this brave man 
did and endured in that expedition. 

“In one instance he w r as seen early in the morning, standing 
in one place, wrapt in meditation, and, as he seemed not to be 
able to unravel the subject of his thoughts, he still continued to 
stand as inquiring and discussing within himself; and, when 
noon came, the soldiers observed him, and said to one another, 

‘ Socrates has been standing there thinking, ever since the morn¬ 
ing.’ At last some Ionians came to the spot, and, having supped, 
as it w ? as summer, bringing their blankets, they lay dowm to sleep 
in the cool: thev observed that Socrates continued to stand there 


130 


SOCRATES. 


the whole night until morning, and that, when the sun rose, he 
saluted it with a prayer, and departed. 

“ I ought not to omit what Socrates is in battle; for, in that 
battle after which the Generals decreed to me the prize of cour¬ 
age, Socrates alone of all men was the savior of my life, stand¬ 
ing by me when I had fallen and was wounded, and preserving 
both myself and my arms from the hands of the enemy. On 
that occasion I entreated the Generals to decree the prize, as it 
was most due, to him. And this, 0 Socrates, you cannot deny, 
that when the Generals, wishing to conciliate a person of my 
rank, desired to give me the prize, you were far more earnestly 
desirous than the Generals, that this glory should be attributed, 
not to yourself, but me. 

“But to see Socrates when our army was.defeated and scat¬ 
tered in flight at Delium, was a spectacle worthy to behold. On 
that occasion I was among the cavalry, and he on foot, heavily 
armed. After the total rout of our troops, he and Laches retreated 
together: I came up by chance, and, seeing them, bade them be 
of good cheer, for that I would not leave them. As I was on 
horseback, and therefore less occupied by a regard of my own 
situation, I could better observe, than at Potidaea, the beautiful 
spectacle exhibited by Socrates on this emergency. How supe¬ 
rior was he to Laches in presence of mind and courage ! Your 
representation of him on the stage, O Aristophanes, was not 
wholly unlike his real self on this occasion; for he walked and 
darted his regards around with a majestic composure, looking 
tranquilly both on his friends and enemies; so that it was evi¬ 
dent to every one, even from afar, that whoever should venture 
to attack him would encounter a desperate resistance. He and 
his companion thus departed in safety; for those who are scat¬ 
tered in flight are pursued and killed, whilst men hesitate to 
touch those who exhibit such a countenance as that of Socrates, 
even in defeat.” 

We must cast a glance at his public career. His doctrine be¬ 
ing Ethical, there is great importance in seeing how far it was 


THE LIFE OF SOCRATES. 


131 


practical. He proclaimed the supremacy of Virtue over all othet 
rules of life; he exhorted men to a brave and unflinching adhe¬ 
sion to Justice, as the only real happiness ; he declared that the 
unjust alone are unhappy. Was he himself virtuous? was he 
happy? The question is pertinent; fortunately it can be an¬ 
swered. 

His bravery as a soldier was surpassed by his bravery as a 
Senator. He had that high moral courage which can brave not 
only death, but opinion. He presents an example, almost unique 
in history, of a man who could defy a tyrant, and also defy a 
tyrannical mob, an impetuous, imperious mob. The Thirty Ty¬ 
rants on one occasion summoned him, together with four others, 
to the Tholus, the place in which the Prytanes took their meals. 
He was there commanded to bring Leon of Salamis to Athens. 
Leon had obtained the right of Athenian citizenship, but fearing 
the rapacity of the tyrants, had retired to Salamis. To bring 
back Leon, Socrates steadily refused. He says himself, that the 
“Government, although it was so powerful, did not frighten me 
into doing any thing unjust; but, when we came out of the Tho¬ 
lus, the four went to Salamis and took Leon, but I went away 
home. And perhaps I should have suffered death on account of 
this, if the Government had not soon been broken up.” 

On another occasion he braved the clamorous mob. lie was 
then a Senator, the onlv State office he ever held. The Athenian 
Senate consisted of the Five Hundred who were elected from the 
ten tribes. During a period of thirty-five or thirty-six days the 
members of each tribe in turn had the presidency, and were call¬ 
ed Prytanes. Of the fifty Prytanes, ten had the presidency every 
seven days; each day one of these ten enjoyed the highest dig¬ 
nity, with the name of Espitates. He laid every thing before 
the assembly of the people, put the question to the vote, examined 
the votes, and, in short, conducted the whole business ot the as¬ 
sembly. He enjoyed this power, however, only for a single day ; 
for that day he was intrusted with the keys of the citadel and 
the treasury of the republic. 


SOCRATES. 


I 90 

lu« 

Socrates was Epistates on the day when the unjust sentence 
was to be passed on the Admirals who had neglected to bury the 
dead after the battle of Arginusae. To take care of the burial of 
the dead was a sacred duty.* The shades of the unburied were 
believed to wander restlessly for a hundred years on the banks 
of the Styx. After the battle of Arginusae, a violent storm arose, 
which prevented the Admirals from obtaining the bodies of the 
slain. In order to remedy this, they left behind them some infe¬ 
rior officers (Taxiarchs) to attend to the office. But the violence 
of the storm rendered it impossible. The Admirals were tried. 
They produced the evidence of the pilots to shew that the tem¬ 
pest had rendered the burial impracticable ; besides which they 
had left the Taxiarchs behind, so that the blame, if any, ought to 
fall on the latter. This produced its natural effect on the people, 
who would instantly have given an acquittal if put to the vote. 
But the accusers managed to adjourn the assembly, pretending 
that it was too dark to count the show of hands. In the mean 
while the enemies of the Admirals did all they could to inflame 
the minds of the people. The lamentations and mournful ap¬ 
pearance of the kinsmen of the slain, who had been hired for the 
tragic scene, had a powerful influence on the assembly. The 
votes were to be given on the general question, whether the Ad¬ 
mirals had done wrong in not taking up the bodies of the 
dead ; and, if they should be condemned by the majority (so the 
Senate ordained), they were to be put to death and their prop¬ 
erty confiscated. But to condemn all by one vote was contrary 
to law. The Prytanes, with Socrates at their head, refused to 
put the illegal question to the vote. The people became furious, 
and loudly demanded that those who resisted their pleasure, 
should themselves be brought to trial. The Prytanes wavered, 
yielded. Socrates alone remained firm, defying the threats of 
the mob. He stood there to administer justice. He w r ould not 
administer injustice. In consequence of his refusal, the ques* 


* The Antigone of Sophocles is founded on the sacredness of this duty. 



THE LIFE OF SOCRATES. 


133 


tion could not be put to tbe vote, and the assembly was again 
adjourned. The next day a new Epistates and other presidents 
succeeded, and the Admirals were condemned.* 

It was impossible for Socrates to enter the market-place with¬ 
out at once becoming an object of attention. His ungainly fig¬ 
ure, his moral character, and his bewitching tongue, excited and 
enchained curiosity. He became known to every citizen. Who 
had not listened to him ? Who had not enjoyed his inimitable 
irony ? Who had not seen him demolish the arrogance and pre¬ 
tension of some reputed wise man ? Socrates must have been a 
terrible antagonist to all people who believed that they were wise 
because they could discourse fluently; and these were not few. 
He always declared that he knew nothing. When a man pro¬ 
fessed knowledge on any point, especially if admiring crowds 
gave testimony to that profession, Socrates was sure to step up to 
him, and, professing ignorance, entreat to be taught. Charmed 
with so humble a listener, the teacher began. Interrogated, he 
unsuspectingly assented to some very evident proposition; a con¬ 
clusion from that, almost as evident, next received his assent; 
from that moment he was lost. With great power of logic, with 
much ingenious subtlety, and sometimes with daring sophistica¬ 
tion, a web was formed from which he could not extricate himself. 
His own admissions were proved to lead to monstrous conclu¬ 
sions ; these conclusions he repugned, but could not see where 
the gist of his error lay. The laughter of all bystanders bespoke 
his defeat. Before him was his adversary, imperturbably calm, 
apparently innocent of all attempt at making him ridiculous. 
Confused, but not confuted, he left the spot indignant with him¬ 
self, but more indignant with the subtlety of his adversary. 

It was thus that Socrates became mistaken for a Sophist; but 
he was distinguished from the Sophists by his constant object. 
Whilst they denied the possibility of truth, he only sought to 
make truth evident, in the ironical, playful, and, sometimes, quib- 


* Wiggers, pp. 51-55. 



134 


SOCEATES. 


bling manner in which he destroyed the arguments of opponents 
Truth was his object, even in his lightest moments. 

This sort of disputation daily occurred in Athens; and by it, 
doubtless, Socrates acquired that notoriety which induced Aris¬ 
tophanes to select him as the Sophist hero of the comedy of The 
Clouds. No one will doubt that to his adversaries he must have 
been an exasperating opponent. No one was safe from his attack. 
No one who presumed to know any thing could escape him. In 
confirmation, let us quote the account Socrates gives of his pro¬ 
cedure, as reported by Plato in the Apology. Socrates there de¬ 
scribes his sensations on hearing that Apollo had declared him to 
be the wisest of men. He could not understand this. Knowing 
himself to be wise in nothing, yet not daring to think the words 
of the god could be false, he was puzzled. “ I went to one of 
those who are esteemed to be wise, thinking that here, if any¬ 
where, I should prove the oracle to be wrong, and to be able to 
say, ‘ Here is a man wiser than I.’ After examining this man 
(I need not name him, but he was one of the politicians), and 
conversing with him, it was my opinion that this man seemed to 
many others, and especially to himself, to be wise, but was not 
so. Thereupon I tried to convince him that he thought himself 
wise, but was not. By this means I offended him and many of 
the bystanders. "When I went away, I said to myself, ‘ I am 
wiser than this man ; for neither of us, it would seem, knows any 
thing valuable : but he, not knowing, fancies he does know ; I, 
as I really do not know, so I do not think I know. I seem, there¬ 
fore, to be in one small matter wiser than lie.’ After this I went 
to another still wiser than he, and came to the same result; and 
by this I affronted him too, and many others. I went on in the 
same manner, perceiving with sorrow and fear that I was making 
enemies; but it seemed necessary to postpone all other considera¬ 
tions to the service of the god, and therefore to seek for the 
meaning of the oracle by going to all who appeared to know any 
thing. And, 0 Athenians, the impression made on me was this: 
The persons of most reputation seemed to me nearly the most 


THE LIFE OF SOCRATES. 


135 


deficient of all; other persons of much smaller account seemed 
much more rational. 

“ When I had done with the politicians, I went to the poets, 
tragic, dithyrambic, and others, thinking that I should surely find 
myself less knowing than they. Taking up those of their poems 
which appeared to me most labored, I asked them (that I might 
at the same time learn something from them) what these poems 
meant? I am ashamed, 0 Athenians, to say the truth, but I 
must say it; there was scarcely a person present who could not 
have spoken better concerning their poems than they. I soon 
found that what poets do, they accomplish not by wisdom, but 
by a kind of natural turn, and an enthusiasm like that of proph¬ 
ets and those who utter oracles ; for these, too, speak many fine 
things, but do not know one particle of what they speak. 

“ Lastly, I resorted to artificers; for I was conscious that I my¬ 
self knew, in a manner, nothing at all, but should find them 
knowing many valuable things. And in this I w r as not mistaken; 
they knew things which I knew not, and were, so far, wiser than 
I. But they appeared to me to fall into the same error as the 
poets; each, because he was skilled in his own art, insisted upon 
being the wisest man in other and greater things; and this 
mistake of theirs overshadowed what they possessed of wisdom. 
From this search, O Athenians, the consequences to me have 
been, on the one hand, many enmities, and of the most formi¬ 
dable kind, which have brought upon me many false imputa¬ 
tions ; but, on the other hand, the name and general repute of a 
wise man.” 

Socrates, like Dr. Johnson, did not care for the country. “ Sir,” 
said the Doctor, “ when you have seen one green field, you have 
seen all green fields: Sir, I like to look upon men. Let us walk 
down Cheapside.” In words of the same import does Socrates 
address Phaedrus, wdio accused him of being unacquainted even 
with the neighborhood of Athens. “ I am very anxious to learn; 
and from fields and trees I can learn nothing. I can only learn 
from men in the city.” And he was always to be found where 


136 


SOCRATES. 


men were assembled.^ Ready to argue with every one, he de 
manded money from none. He gave no lectures : he only talked. 
He wrote no books: he argued.f He cannot properly be said 
to have had a school, since he did not even give a systematic ex¬ 
position of his doctrine. What has been called his school, must 
be understood to refer to the many delighted admirers whose 
custom it was to surround him whenever he appeared, to talk 
with him as often as possible, and to accept his leading opinions. 

“ At what time Socrates relinquished his profession as a statu¬ 
ary we do not know; but it is certain that all the middle and 
later part of his life, at least, was devoted exclusively to the self- 
imposed task of teaching; excluding all other business, public or 
private, and to the neglect of all means of fortune. We can 
hardly avoid speaking of him as a teacher, though he himself dis¬ 
claimed the appellation; his practice was to talk or converse. 
Early in the morning he frequented the public walks, the gym¬ 
nasia for bodily training, and the schools where youths weref re¬ 
ceiving instruction ; he was to be seen in the market-place at the 
hour when it was most crowded, among the booths and tables 
where goods were exposed for sale; his whole day was usually 
spent in this public manner. He talked with any one, young or 
old, rich or poor, who sought to address him, and in the hearing 
of all who stood by; not only he never either asked or received 
any reward, but he made no distinction of persons, never with¬ 
held his conversation from any one, and talked on the same gen¬ 
eral subjects with all. ... As it was engaging, curious, and 
instructive to hear, certain persons made it their habit to attend 
him in public, as companions and listeners. These men, a fluctu¬ 
ating body, were commonly known as his disciples and scholars; 
though neither he nor his personal friends ever employed the 

* Xenophon, 3Ikl7lOF(lb. l . 1 . Kat t\cye ficv u>j to ito\v } tois Sf (JovXouivois 
}(tjv axovciv. 

t We are, therefore, disposed to accept as historical, the language Plato 
puts into his mouth respecting the inefficiency of books. Books cannot be 
interrogated, cannot answer; therefore, cannot teach: we can omy learu 
from them that which we knew before.— Phcedrus , p. 96. 



THE LIFE OF SOCRATES. 


137 


terms teacher and disciple to describe the relation between them. 
Now no other person in Athens, nor in any other Grecian city, 
appears ever to have manifested himself in this perpetual and in¬ 
discriminate manner, as a public talker for instruction. By the 
peculiar mode of life which Socrates pursued, not only his con¬ 
versation reached the minds of a much wider circle, but he be¬ 
came more abundantly known as a person. While acquiring- a 
few friends and admirers, and raising- a certain intellectual interest 
in others, he at the same time provoked a large number of per¬ 
sonal enemies. This was probably the reason why he was se* 
lected by Aristophanes and the other comic writers to be attacked 
as a general representative of philosophical and rhetorical teach¬ 
ing.”* 

Although Socrates was a knight-errant of philosophy, ever on 
the alert to rescue some forlorn truth from the dungeons of pre¬ 
judice, and therefore was not scrupulous as to who or what his 
adversary might be, yet his especial enemies were the Sophists. 
He never neglected an opportunity of refuting them. He com¬ 
bated them with their own weapons, and on their own ground. 
He knew all their tactics. He knew their strength and their 
weakness. Like them he had studied Physics, in the specula¬ 
tions of the early thinkers; and like them had seen that these 
speculations led to no certainty. But he had not, like them, 
made skepticism a refuge ; he had not proclaimed Truth to be a 
Phantom, because he could not embrace her. No: defeated in 
his endeavor to penetrate the mysteries of the world without , he 
turned his attention to the world within. For Physics he sub¬ 
stituted Morals. The certitude which he failed to gain respect¬ 
ing the operations of nature, had not shaken his conviction of the 
certitude of the moral truths which his conscience irresistibly 
•’mpressed upon his attention. The world of sense might be 
fleeting and deceptive. The voice of conscience could not de¬ 
ceive. Turning his attention inwards, he discovered certain 


* Grote, viii. 555. 



138 


SOCRATES. 


truths which admitted of no question. They were eternal, ira 
mutable, evident. These he opposed to the skepticism of the 
Sophists. Moral certitude was the rock upon which his ship¬ 
wrecked soul was cast. There he could repose in safety. From 
its heights he could survey the world, and his relation to it. 

Thus was his life spent. In his old age he had to appear be¬ 
fore his judges to answer the accusations of Impiety and Immo¬ 
rality. He appeared, and was condemned. 

When we think upon the character of this great man, whose 
.virtues, luminous in the distance, and surrounded with the halo 
of imperishable glory, so impose on our imaginations, that they 
seem as evident as they were exalted, we cannot hear of his trial 
and condemnation without indignant disgust at the Athenians. 
But, for the sake of humanity, let us be cautious ere we decide. 
The Athenians were volatile, credulous, and cruel: all masses of 
men are; and they, perhaps, were eminently so. But it is too 
much to suppose that they, or any people, would have condemned 
Socrates had he appeared to them what he appears to us. Had 
a tyrant committed such a deed, the people would have avenged 
it. But Socrates was not to them what he appears to us. He 
was offensive to them, and paid the penalty. 

A great man cannot be understood by his contemporaries. 
He can only be understood by his peers ; and his peers are few. 
Posterity exalts a great man’s fame by producing a number of 
great men to appreciate him. The great man is also necessarily 
a reformer in some shape or other. Every reformer has to com¬ 
bat with existing prejudices and deep-rooted passions. To cut 
his own path, he must displace the rubbish which encumbers it. 
He is therefore in opposition to his fellow-men, and attacks their 
interests. Blinded by prejudice, by passion, and by interest, 
men cannot see the excellence of him they oppose; and hence 
it is that, as Heine so admirably says, “ wherever a great soul gives 
utterance to his thoughts, there also is Golgotha.” 

Reformers are martyrs; and Socrates was a reformer. Although, 
therefore, his condemnation appears to us very unjust and very 


THE LIFE OF SOCRATES. 


139 


frightful, to the Athenians it was no more than the banishment ot 
Empedocles, or the condemnation of Protagoras. Pure as were 
his intentions, his actions and opinions were offensive. He in¬ 
curred the hatred of party-spirit; and by that hatred fell. We 
recognize the purity of his intentions; he does not oppose us. 
We can pardon what we believe to be his errors, because those 
errors wage no war with our interests. Very differently were 
the Athenians situated. To them he was offensive. He hated 
injustice and folly of all kinds, and never lost an occasion of ex¬ 
posing them. A man who undertakes to be the critic of his age 
cannot escape the critic’s penalty. Socrates censured freely, 
openly.* 

But, perhaps, the most exasperating part of his behavior was 
the undisguised contempt which he uniformly expressed for the 
readiness with which men assumed they had a capacity for gov¬ 
ernment. Only the wise, he said, were fit to govern, and they 
were few. Government is a science, and a difficult science. It 
is infinitely more difficult to govern a State than to govern the 
helm of a ship. Yet, the same people who would not trust them¬ 
selves in a ship without an experienced pilot, not only trust them¬ 
selves in a State with an inexperienced ruler, but also endeavor 
to become rulers themselves. This contempt was sufficient to 
cause his condemnation; but a better pretext was wanted, and 
it was found in his impiety. His defenders, ancient and modern, 
have declared that he was not guilty of impiety ; aud Xenophon 
“ wonders ” that the charge could have been credited for an in¬ 
stant. But we believe that the charge was as much merited as 
in the case of the other philosophers against whom it was made.f 
He gave new interpretations to the reigning dogmas; and op- 


* The masterly account of the trial of Socrates, given by Mr. Grote, should 
De read and re-read by all interested in this subject. 

+ Sextus Empiricus, speaking of the Socratic heresy, calls it d»f hpavM- 
t fivcavrb 9e7ov. — Ado. Math. ii. p. 69.—Plato’s dialogues of The Second AlciH- 
ades and the Euthyphro are evidence enough of Socrates’ opposition to the 
Mythology of his day. 



140 


SOCRATES. 


posing the mythological interpretations, he was chargeable with 
impiety. 

It has been remarked by an anonymous writer, that, in com¬ 
plying with the rites of his country, Socrates avoided her super¬ 
stitions. The rite of sacrifice, so simple and natural that it har¬ 
monizes with all and any religious truth, required to be guarded 
against a great abuse, and against this he warned his countrymen. 

“ When, ” says Xenophon, * he sacrificed, he feared not his of¬ 
fering would fail of acceptance in that he was poor; but, giving 
according to his ability, he doubted not but, in .lie sight of the 
Gods, he equalled those men whose gifts and sacrifices overspread 
the whole altar; for Socrates always reckoned upon it as a most 
indubitable truth, that the service paid the Deity by the pure 
and pious soul was the most grateful service. 

“ When he prayed, his petition was only this,—that the Gods 
would give to him those things that were good. And this he did, 
forasmuch as they alone knew what was good for man. But he 
who should ask for gold or silver, or increase of dominion, acted 
not, in his opinion, more wisely than one who should pray for 
the opportunity to fight, or game, or any thing of the like na¬ 
ture ; the consequence whereof being altogether doubtful, might 
turn, for aught he knew, not a little to his disadvantage.”* 

It was more difficult for the philosopher either innocently to 
comply with, or safely to oppose, that part of the popular religion 
which related to oracles and omens. Socrates appears to have 
done what was possible, and what therefore was best ultimately, 
towards correcting this great evil. 

“ He likewise asserted, that the science of divination was ne¬ 
cessary for all such as would govern successfully, either cities or 
private families; for, although he thought every one might choose 
his own way of life, and afterwards, by liis industry, excel there¬ 
in (whether architecture, mechanics, agriculture, superintending 
the laborer, managing the finances, or practising the art of war), 


* Memorabilia , i. 8. 




THE LIFE OF SOCRATES. 


141 


yet even here, the Gods, he would say, thought proper to reserve 
to themselves, in all these things, the knowledge of that part of 
of them which was of the most importance, since he who was 
the most careful to cultivate his field, could not know of a cer¬ 
tainty who should reap the fruit of it. 

“Socrates therefore esteemed all those as no other than mad¬ 
men who, excluding the Deity, referred the success of their de¬ 
signs to nothing higher than human prudence, lie likewise 
thought those not much better who had recourse to divination 
on every occasion, as if a man was to consult the oracle whether 
he should give the reins of his chariot into the hands of one ig¬ 
norant or well-versed in the art of driving, or place at the helm 
of his ship a skilful or unskilful pilot. 

“ He also thought it a kind of impiety to importune the Gods 
with our inquiries concerning things of which we may gain the 
knowledge by number, weight, or measure ; it being, as it seemed 
to him, incumbent on man to make himself acquainted with what¬ 
ever the Gods had placed within his power: as for such things 
as were beyond his comprehension, for these he ought always to 
apply to the oracle ; the Gods being ever ready to communicate 
knowledge to those whose care had been to render them pro¬ 
pitious.”* 

The trial of Socrates belongs rather to the history of Greece 
than to the history of Philosophy. It was a political trial. His 
bearing during the whole period was worthy of him : calm, 
grave, and touching ; somewhat haughty perhaps, but with the 
haughtiness of a brave soul fighting for the truth. It increased 
the admiration of his admirers, and exasperated his adversaries-. 

Plato, then a young man, was present at the trial, and has 
preserved an admirable picture of it in his Apology. The clos¬ 
ing speech, made by Socrates, after sentence of death had been 
pronounced, is supposed to be given with substantial accuracy 
by Plato. We extract it:— 


12 


* Memorabilia , i. 1. 



142 


SOCRATES. 


“ It is for the sake of but a short span, 0 Athenians, that you 
have incurred the imputation from those who wish to speak evil of 
the city, of having put to death Socrates, a wise man (for those 
who are inclined to reproach you will say that I am wise, even 
if I am not). Had you waited a short time the thing would have 
happened without your agency; for you see my years; I am far 
advanced in life, and near to death. I address this not to all of 
you, but to those who have voted for the capital sentence, and 
this, too, I say to the same persons,—Perhaps you think that I 
have been condemned for want of skill in such modes of working 
upon your minds, as I might have employed with success, if I 
had thought it right to employ all means in order to escape from 
condemnation. Far from it: I have been condemned, and not 
from want of things to say, but from want of daring and shame¬ 
lessness ; because I did not choose to say to you the things which 
would have been pleasantest for you to hear, weeping, and lament¬ 
ing, and saying and doing other things which I affirm to be un¬ 
worthy of me ; as you are accustomed to see others do. But 
neither did I then think fit to do or say any thing unworthy of a 
freeman ; nor do I now repent of having thus defended myself. 
I would far rather have made the one defence and die, than have 
made the other and live. Neither in a court of justice, nor in 
war, ought we to make it our object that, whatever happen, we 
may escape death. In battle it is often evident that a man may 
save his life by throwing away his arms and imploring mercy of 
his pursuers ; and in all other dangers there are many contrivan¬ 
ces by which a person may get off with life if he dare do or say 
every thing. The difficulty, O Athenians, is not to escape from 
death, but from guilt; for guilt is swifter than death, and runs 
faster. And now I, being old and slow of foot, have been over¬ 
taken by Heath, the slower of the two; but my accusers, who 
are brisk and vehement, by wickedness, the swifter. We quit 
this place : I have been sentenced by you to death ; but they 
having sentence passed upon them, by Truth, of guilt and in 
justice. I submit to my punishment, and they to theirs. 


THE LIFE OF SOCRATES. 


143 


“ But I wish, 0 men who have condemned me, to prophesy 
to you what next is to come. I say, then, that, immediately 
after my death, there will come upon you a far severer punish¬ 
ment than that which you have inflicted upon me; for you have 
done this, thinking by it to escape from being called to account 
for your lives. But I affirm that the very reverse will happen to 
you. There will be many to call you to account whom I have 
hitherto restrained, and whom you saw not; and, being younger, 
they will give you more annoyance, and you will be still more 
provoked; for, if you think by putting men to death to deter 
others from reproaching you with living amiss, you think ill. 
That mode of protecting yourselves is neither very possible nor 
very noble : the noblest and the easiest too is not to cut off other 
people, but so to order yourselves as to attain the greatest ex¬ 
cellence. 

“ Thus much I beg of you: When my sons grow up, punish 
them, 0 Athenians, by tormenting them as I tormented you, if 
they shall seem to study riches, or any other ends, in preference 
to virtue. And, if they are thought to be something, being real¬ 
ly nothing, reproach them, as I have reproached you, for not at¬ 
tending to what they ought, and fancying themselves something 
when they are good for nothing. And, if you do this, both I 
and my sons shall have received what is just at your hands. 

“ It is now time that we depart , I to die , you to live ; but which 
has the better destiny is unknown to all except the God.” 

This is very grand and impressive, and paints the character of 
the man. Magno animo et vultu carcerem intravit , says Seneca. 
He consoled his weeping friends, and gently upbraided them for 
their complaints at the injustice of the sentence. No man ever 
faced death with greater calmness; for no man ever welcomed it 
with greater faith as a new birth to a higher state of being. 

He would have been executed the next day, but it happened 
that the next day was the first of the festival of the Delian Iheo- 
ria, during which no criminal could be put to death. This festi¬ 
val lasted thirty days. Socrates, though in chains and awaiting 


144 


SOCRATES. 


his end, spent the interval in cheerful conversation with his 
friends, and in composing verses. “During this time,” says 
Xenophon, “he lived before the eyes of all his friends in the 
same manner as in former days; but now his past life was most 
admired on account of his present calmness and cheerfulness of 
mind.” On the last day he held a conversation with his friends 
on the immortality of the soul. This forms the subject of Plato’s 
Phcedo. The arguments in that dialogue are most probably 
Plato’s own; and it is supposed that the dying speech of Cyrus, 
in Xenophon’s Cyropcedia , is a closer copy of the opinions of 
Socrates. 

Phcedo, describing the impression produced on him by the 
sight of Socrates on this final day, says:—“ I did not feel the 
pity which it was natural I should feel at the death of a friend: 
on the contrary, he seemed to me perfectly happy as I gazed on 
him and listened to him: so calm and dignified was his bearing. 
And I thought that he only left this world under the protection 
of the Gods, who destined him to a more than mortal felicity in 
the next.” He then details the conversation on the immortality 
of the soul; after which, he narrates the close of that glorious 
life in language worthy of it. Even in the English version of 
Taylor the beauty of the narrative stands manifestly out. 

“ When he had thus spoke, he rose, and went into a room, 
that he might wash himself, and Crito followed him: but he 
ordered us to wait for him. We waited, therefore, accordingly, 
discoursing over, and reviewing among ourselves, what had been 
said, and sometimes speaking about his death, how great a ca¬ 
lamity it would be to us; and sincerely thinking that we, like 
those who are deprived of their hither, should pass the rest of our 
life in the condition of orphans. But, when he had washed him¬ 
self, his sons were brought to him (for he had two little ones, and 
one considerably advanced in age), and the women belonging to 
his family likewise came in to him : but when he had spoken to 
them before Crito, and had left them such injunctions as he 
thought proper, he ordered the boys and women to depart; and 


THE LIFE OF SOCRATES. 


145 


lie himself returned to us. And it was now near the setting of 
the sun : for he had been absent for a long time in the bathing- 
room. But, when he came in from washing, he sat down, and 
did not speak much afterwards; for, then, the servant of the 
eleven magistrates came in, and, standing near him, I do not per¬ 
ceive that in you, Socrates (says he), which I have taken notice 
of in others; I mean that they are angry with me, and curse 
me, when, being compelled by the magistrates, I announce to 
them that they must drink the poison. But, on the contrary, I 
have found you at the present time to be the most generous, 
mild, and best of all the men who ever came into this place: and, 
therefore, I am now well convinced that you are not angry with 
me, but with the authors of your present condition. You know 
those whom I allude to. Now, therefore (for you know what I 
came to tell you), farewell! and endeavor to bear this necessity 
as easily as possible. And at the same time, bursting into tears, 
aud turning himself away, he departed. 

“ThenCrito gave the sign to the boy that stood near him. 
And the boy departing, and, having staid for some time, came, 
bringing with him the person that was to administer the poison, 
and who brought it properly prepared in a cup. But, Socrates, 
beholding the man,—It’s well, my friend (says he) ; but what is 
proper to do with it? for you are knowing in these affairs. You 
have nothing else to do (says he) but when you have drunk it to 
walk about, till a heaviness takes place in your legs, and after¬ 
wards lie down : this is the manner in which you should act. 
And, at the same time, he extended the cup to Socrates. But 
Socrates received it from him, and, indeed, with great cheerful¬ 
ness ; neither trembling nor suffering any alteration for the 
worse in his color or countenance, but, as he was accustomed to 
do, beholding the man with a bull-like aspect. What say you 
(says he) respecting this potion ? Is it lawful to make a libation 
of it, or not ? We only bruise (says he), Socrates, as much as 
we think sufficient for the purpose. I understand you (says he); 
but it is certainly both lawful and proper to pray to the Gods, 


146 


SOCRATES. 


that my departure from hence thither may be attended with 
prosperous fortune; which I entreat them to grant may be the 
case. And, at the same time ending his discourse, he drank the 
poison with exceeding facility and alacrity. And thus far, indeed, 
the greater part of us were tolerably well able to refrain from 
weeping; but, when we saw him drinking, and that he had drunk 
it, we could no longer restrain our tears. But from me, indeed, 
notwithstanding the yiolence which I employed in checking 
them, they flowed abundantly; so that, coyering myself with my 
mantle, I deplored my misfortune. I did not, indeed, weep for 
him, but for my own fortune, considering what an associate I 
should be deprived of. But, Crito, who was not able to restrain 
his. tears, was compelled to rise before me. And Apollodorus, 
who, during the whole time prior to this, had not ceased from 
weeping, then.wept aloud, and with great bitterness; so that he 
infected all who were present except Socrates. But Socrates, 
upon seeing this, exclaimed: "What are you doing, excellent 
men ? For, indeed, I principally sent away the women, lest they 
should produce a disturbance of this kind. For I have heard it 
is proper to die attended with propitious omens. Be quiet, there¬ 
fore, and summon fortitude to your assistance. But when we 
heard this we blushed, and restrained our tears. But he, when 
he found, during his walking, that his legs felt heavy, and had 
told us so, laid himself down in a supine position. For the man 
had ordered him to do so. And, at the same time, he who gave 
him the poison, touching him at intervals, considered his feet 
and legs. And, after he had vehemently pressed his foot, he 
asked him if he felt it. But Socrates answered he did not. And, 
after this, he again pressed his thighs : and, thus ascending with 
his hand, he showed us that he was cold and stiff.. And Soc¬ 
rates also touched himself, and said that when the poison reached 
his heart he should then leave us. But now his lower belly was 

J 

almost cold; when, uncovering himself (for he was covered) he 
said (which were his last words), Crito, we owe a cock to ^Escu- 
lapius. Discharge this debt, therefore, for me, and don’t neglect 


TIIE LIFE OF SOCRATES. 


147 


it. It shall be done (says Crito); but consider whether you have 
any other commands. To this inquiry of Crito he made no re¬ 
ply ; but shortly after moved himself, and the man covered him. 
And Socrates fixed his eyes. Which, when Crito perceived, he 
closed his mouth and eyes. This was the end of our associate ; 
a man, as it appears to me, the best of those whom we were ac¬ 
quainted with at that time; and, besides this, the most prudent 
and just.” 

Thus perished this great and good man, a martyr to Phi¬ 
losophy. His character we have endeavored to represent fairly, 
though briefly. Let us now add the summing-up of Xen¬ 
ophon, who loved him tenderly, and expressed his love grace¬ 
fully : 

% 

“ As to myself, knowing him of a truth to be such a man as I 
have described; so pious towards the Gods, as never to undertake 
any thing without first consulting them ; so just towards men, as 
never to do any injury, even the very slightest, to any one, whilst 
many and great were the benefits he conferred on all with whom 
he had any dealings ; so temperate and chaste, as not to indulge 
auy appetite or inclination at the expense of whatever was modest 
and becoming; so prudent, as never to err in judging of good 
and evil, nor wanting the assistance of others to discriminate 
rightly concerning them; so able to discourse upon, aud define 
with the greatest accuracy, not only those points of which we 
have been speaking, but likewise every other, and looking as it 
were into the minds of men, discover the very moment for rep¬ 
rehending vice, or stimulating to the love of virtue: experien¬ 
cing, as I have done, all these excellencies in Socrates, I can 
never cease considering him as the most virtuous and the most 
happy of all mankind. But, if there is any one who is disposed 
to think otherwise, let him go and compare Socrates with any 
other, and afterwards let him determine.”* 

After ages have cherished the memory of his virtues and his 


* Memorabilia , iv. 7. 




US 


SOCK AXES. 


fate; but without profiting much by his example, and without 
learning tolerance from his story. 

§ II. Philosophy of Socrates. 

Opinions vary so considerably respecting the philosophy of 
Socrates, and materials whereby they can be tested are so scanty, 
that any attempt at exposition must be made with diffidence. 
The historian has to rely solely on his critical skill; and on such 
grounds, he will not, if prudent, be very confident. 

Amongst the scattered materials from which an opinion may 
be formed are, 1st. The very general tradition of Socrates having 
produced a revolution in thought; in consequence of which he 
is by all regarded as the initiator of a new epoch; and by some 
as the founder of Greek Philosophy, properly so called. 2dly. 
The express testimony of Aristotle, that he first made use of deji 
nitions and proceeded by induction * These two positions 
involve each other. If Socrates produced a revolution in phi¬ 
losophy, he could only have done so by a new Method. That 
Method we see exhibited in the phrase of Aristotle, but it is 
there only exhibited in a brief concentrated manner, and requires 
to be elucidated. 

Assuredly we may echo Mr. Grote’s statement, that it requires 
at the present day some mental effort to see any thing important 
in the invention of notions so familiar as those of Genus—Defi¬ 
nition—Individual things as comprehended in a genus—what 
each thing is, and to what genus it belongs, etc. Nevertheless 
four centuries before Christ these terms denoted mental processes 
which few, if any but Socrates, had a distinct recognition of, in 
the form of analytical consciousness. “The ideas of men_ 


* “ There are two things of which Socrates must justly be regarded as the 
author, the Inductive Reasoning and Abstract Definitions ”— robs t iiraxTiKovs 
Xuyovs Kai to bfi^coOai xaOcXov. (Arist. Metaph. xiii. 4.) Xenophon has sev¬ 
eral indications of the inductive method : he also says that Socrates always 
proceeded from propositions best known to those less known, which is a 
definition of Induction. 



PHILOSOPHY OF SOCRATES. 


149 


speakers as well as hearers, the productive minds as well as the 
recipient multitude—were associated together in groups, favora¬ 
ble rather to emotional results, or to poetical, rhetorical narra¬ 
tive, and descriptive effect, than to methodical generalization, to 
scientific conception, or to proof either inductive or deductive. 
That reflex act of attention which enables men to understand, 
compare, and rectify their own mental process was only just be¬ 
ginning. It was a recent novelty on the part of the rhetorical 
teachers to analyze the component parts of a public harangue, 
and to propound some precepts for making men tolerable speak¬ 
ers. It may be doubted whether any one before Socrates ever 
used the words Genus and Species (originally meaning Family 
and Form), in the philosophical sense now exclusively appro¬ 
priated to them. Not one of those many names (called by logi¬ 
cians names of the second intention ) which imply distinct atten¬ 
tion to various parts of the logical process, and enable us to 
criticize it in detail, then existed. All of them grew out of the 
schools of Plato, Aristotle, and the subsequent philosophers, so 
that we can thus trace them in their beginning to the common 
root and father, Socrates.”* The novelty was very distasteful 
to all who were not seduced by it. Men resent being forced to 
rigor of speech and thought; they call you “ pedantic” if you 
insist on their using terms with definite meanings; they prefer 
the loose flowing language of indefinite association which picks 
up in its course a variety of heterogeneous meanings; and are 
irritated at any speaker who points out to them the inaccuracy 
of their phrases. Aristotle says it was thought bad taste in his 
day —h uxpi(3o\oyi<x (jjxpotfpstfsg : and Timon the Sillograph sar¬ 
castically calls Socrates one of the dxpi{3o\oyoi, as if precision of 
language were a vice. 

“ The notions of Genus, subordinate genera, and individuals 
as comprehended under them, were at that time newly brought 
into clear consciousness in the human mind. The profusion of 


* Grote, viii. 57*8. 




150 


SOCKATES. 


logical distribution employed in some of the dialogues of Plate 
seems partly traceable to bis -wish to familiarize bis bearers with 
that which was then a novelty, as 'well as to enlarge its develop* 
ment and diversify its mode of application.” “ We must always 
consider the Method of Socrates in conjunction with the subjects 
to which he applied it. . . . On such questions as these—What 
is justice?—What is piety?—What is democracy?—What is 
law ?—every man fancied that he could give a confident opinion, 
and even wondered that any other person should feel a diffi¬ 
culty. When Socrates, professing ignorance, put any such ques¬ 
tion, he found no difficulty in obtaining an answer, given off¬ 
hand and with very little reflection. The answer purported tc 
be the explanation or definition of a term, familiar indeed, but of 
wide and comprehensive import,—given by one who had never 
before tried to render to himself an account of what it meant. 
Having got this answer, Socrates put fresh questions, applying it 
to specific cases, to which the respondent was compelled to give 
answers inconsistent with the first; showing that the definition 
was either too narrow or too wide, or defective in some essen¬ 
tial condition. The respondent then amended his answer; but 
this was a prelude to other questions, which could only bo 
answered in ways inconsistent with the amendment; and the 
respondent, after many attempts to disentangle himself, was 
obliged to plead guilty to the inconsistencies, with an admission 
that he could make no satisfactory answer to the original query 
which at first had appeared so easy and familiar. . . The discus 
sion first raised by Socrates turns upon the meaning of some 
large generic term. The queries whereby he follows it up bring 
the answer given into collision with various particulars which it 
ought not to comprehend, or with others which it ought to com¬ 
prehend, but does not. The inconsistencies into which the 
hearer is betrayed in his various answers proclaim to him the 
fact that he has not yet acquired any thing like a clear and full 
conception of the common attribute which binds together the 
various particulars embraced under some term which is evei 


PHILOSOPHY OF SOCRATES. 


151 


upon liis lips. lie is thus put upon the train of thought which 
leads to a correction of the generalization, and lights him on tc 
that which Plato calls seeing the One in the Many, and the 
Many in the One.”* 

Because Socrates employed Induction, it is frequently stated 
that he anticipated Bacon’s Inductive Method. Passages can 
certainly he quoted iu which Socrates and Bacon hold very simi¬ 
lar language ; and in some respects their reform was analogous; 
but the differences are more profound than the resemblances. 
The aim and purpose of Socrates was confessedly to withdraw 
the mind from contemplating the phenomena of nature, and to 
fix it on its own phenomena: truth was to be sought by looking- 
inwards, not by looking outwards. The aim and purpose of Ba¬ 
con’s philosophy was the reverse of this; he exhorted men to the 
observation and interpretation of nature, and energetically de¬ 
nounced all attempts to discover the operations of mind. It 
Socrates pushed too for this contempt of physics, Bacon pushed 
too for his contempt of psycholog} 7 : the exaggeration was, in 
each case, produced by the absurdities of contemporaries. 

Not more decided is the contrast between their conceptions 
of Induction. With Socrates it was little more than Induciio 
per enumerationem simplicem , or “reasoning by analogy,”—the 
mere collection of particular facts,—a process which it was Ba¬ 
con’s peculiar merit to have utterly destroyed. The whole force 
of the Novum Organum may be said to be directed against this 
erroneous method. The triviality of the method may indeed be 
seen in the quibbles to which it furnishes support in Plato; it 
may be seen also in the argument used by Aristippus to justify 
his living with Lai's the courtesan. “Ho you think, Diogenes, 
that there is any thing odd in inhabiting a house that oth¬ 
ers have inhabited before you?—No. Or sailing in a ship in 
which many men have sailed before you ?—No. By parity of 
reasoning, then, there is nothing odd in living with a woman 


* Grote, viii. 5S3-8. 




152 


SOCRATES. 


whom many men have lived with before.” This quibble is 
a legitimate Socratic induction; and it was made by a pupil of 
Socrates. It is only a parody of the arguments by which it was 
proved that to inflict injustice is more painful than to suffer it; 
one of the many startling dogmas attributed to Socrates. Who¬ 
ever supposes this Induction to be the Baconian Induction (which 
is an interrogation of nature), has missed the sense of the Novum 
Organum . Indeed, to suppose that such a conception as Ba¬ 
con’s could have been originated so early in the history of 
science, is radically to mistake the course of human development. 

Mr. Grote has quoted several striking passages from Bacon,* 
to show the parallel between the spirit and purpose of the Ba¬ 
conian and Socratic Methods; and probably most readers will 
agree with him when he says that Socrates “ sought to test the 
fundamental notions and generalizations respecting man and 
society in the same spirit in which Bacon approached those of 
Physics: he suspected the unconscious process of the growing 
intellect, and desired to revise it, by comparison with particulars, 
and from particulars, too, the most clear and certain, but which, 
from being of vulgar occurrence, were least attended to. And 
that which Socrates described in his language as the ‘ conceit of 
knowledge without the reality’ is identical with what Bacon 
designates as the primary notions —the puerile observations —the 
aberrations of the intellect left to itself.” But in spite of this re¬ 
semblance the difference is profound, and it rises into unmistaka¬ 
ble distinctness when we consider the results in the philosophies 
of the two; the Socratic Method is seen developed in Plato and 
Aristotle, the Baconian in Newton and Faraday; and if, as was 
stated in our Introduction, the adoption of the Method of gradu¬ 
ated Verification was not owing to a previous circumscription oi 
the aims of Philosophy, but, on the contrary, if this Method ne¬ 
cessarily led to the circumscription, it follows that systems sc 
metaphysical as those which came out of the Socratic teaching 


* Vol. viii. p. 612. 




PHILOSOPHY OF SOCRATES. 


153 


must have been the produce of a very different Method from 
that which led to modern science. 

Conceit of knowledge, without the reality, was by Socrates 
perpetually stigmatized as the most disgraceful of mental defects,* 
and the whole effort of his terrible questioning—the “ cross-ex¬ 
amining Elenchus”—was to make men aware of this conceit, to 
prove to them that their knowledge was a sham, as Carlyle would 
call it. Instead of the loose, heterogeneous conceptions with 
which men deceived themselves and others into the belief of 
knowledge, he insisted on the substitution of rigorous and dis¬ 
tinct conceptions. 

How could this be done but by definitions ? To know the 
essence of a thing you must consider it as distinct from every 
thing else, you must define it; by defining it you demarcate it 
from what it is not, and so present the thing before you in its 
essence. 

It was a fundamental conviction with him that it is impossible 
to start from one true thought, and be entangled in any contra¬ 
diction with another true thought; knowledge derived from any 
one point, and obtained by correct combination, cannot contra¬ 
dict that which has been obtained from any other point. He 
believed that Reason was pregnant with Truths, and only needed 
an accoucheur. An accoucheur he announced himself; his main 
instruments were Definitions. By Definition he enabled the 
thinker to separate the particular thought he wished to express, 
from the myriad of other thoughts which clouded it. By Defi¬ 
nition he enabled a man to contemplate the essence of a thing, 
because he admitted nothing which was not essential into the 
definition. 

The radical mistake here is the confusion between Definitions 
of Names and Definitions of Things. In the Definition of a Name 
nothing more is applied than the meaning intended to be affixed; 


* Plato, Apologia , p. 29 (p. 114 , ed. Bekker): Ka\ tovto -k wj oIk aixaOia t<ni> 
airri fj tirovciSitrros, f] tov cutrOat tl&tvai 3 ovk olSev; 



154 : 


SOCRATES. 


in the definition of a Tiling there is, over and above this intended 
meaning, the assertion of a corresponding fact which the definition 
describes. 

We have more than once commented on the natural tendency 
of the early thinkers to mistake distinctions in words for distinc¬ 
tions in things. W T e have now to signalize, in the history ol 
speculation, the reduction of this tendency to a systematic for¬ 
mula. Names henceforth have the force of things.* A correct 
Definition is held to be a true description of the Thing per se: 
the explanation of terms as equivalent to the explanation of things , 
aud the exhibition of the nature of any thing in a definition as 
equivalent to our actual analysis of it in a laboratory —are the 
central errors of the Platonic and Aristotelian philosophy. These 
errors continue to flourish in all the metaphysical systems of the 
present day. ' 

When stated in a naked manner, the absurdity of this Method 
is apparent; but it may be so disguised as to look profoundly 
philosophic. lienee the frequent use of such locutions as that 
certain properties are “ involved in the idea” of certain things; 
as if being involved in the idea, i. e. being included in the defini¬ 
tion, necessarily implied a correspondent objective existence ; as if 
human conceptions were the faithful copies of external things. 
The conceptions of men widely differ; consequently different 
properties are “ involved” in these different conceptions; but all 
cannot be true, and the question arises, Wdiich conception is 
true ? To answer this question by any thing like a definition, is 
to argue in a circle. A principle of certitude must be sought. 
That principle, however, is still to seek. 

The influence of the theory of definitions will be more dis¬ 
tinctly discernible as we proceed. It is the one grand character¬ 
istic of the Method Socrates originated. In it must be sought 
the explanation of his views of Philosophy. 

He has been almost taunted with never having promulgated 


* See Plato’s Uratylus , passim. 



PHILOSOPHY OF SOCRATES. 


155 


any system of his own. His rank in the history of philosophy 
has been questioned, and has been supposed to be only that of a 
moralist. A passage of Aristotle has been quoted as decisive on 
this point: “ The speculations of Socrates were only concerning 
Ethics, and not at all concerning Nature in general” ( 1 % oXr^ 
cpurfsuc;). But this is not oil the passage : it continues thus: 
“ In these speculations he sought the Abstract (<ro xadoXou), and 
was the first who thought of giving definitions.” Now in this 
latter portion we believe there is contained a hint of something 
more than the mere moralist—a hint of the metaphysician. On 
turning to another part of Aristotle’s treatise* we accordingly 
find this hint more clearly brought out; we find an ^press indi¬ 
cation of the metaphysician. The passage is as follows: “ Socrates 
concerned himself with ethical virtues, and he first sought the 
abstract definitions of these. Before him Democritus had only 
concerned himself with a part of Physics, and defined but the 
Hot and the Cold. But Socrates, reasonably (suXo'yw^), sought 
the Essence of Things, i. e. sought what exists .” 

Moveover, in another passage (lib. iii. c. 2) Aristotle reproaches 
Aristippus for having rejected science, and concerned himself 
solely with morals. This is surely negative evidence that Soc¬ 
rates was not to be blamed for the same opinion ; otherwise he 
would have been also mentioned. 

It was a natural mistake to suppose that Socrates was only a 
Moralist, seeing that his principal topics -were always Man and 
Society, and never Physical speculations, which he deemed beyond 
the reach of human intellect. If, however, Socrates had been 
merely a Moralist, his place in the history of Philosophy would 
not have been what it is; no Plato, no Aristotle would have 
called him master. He made a new epoch. The previous phi¬ 
losophers had directed their attention to external Nature, endeav¬ 
oring to explain its phenomena; he gave up all such speculations, 
and directed his attention solely to the nature of Knowledge. 


* Metaph. xiii. 4. 



156 


SOCRATES. 


Men speculated at random. They sought truth, but they only 
built hypotheses, because they had not previously ascertained the 
limits and conditions of inquiry. They attempted to form sciences 
before having settled the conditions of Science. It was the pe¬ 
culiar merit of Socrates to have proposed, as the grand question 
of philosophy, the nature and conditions of Science. 

The reader may now begin to appreciate the importance of 
Definitions in the Socratic Method, and may understand why 
Socrates did not himself invent systems, but only a Method. lie 
likened himself to a Midwife, who, though unable to bring forth 
children herself, assisted women in their labors. He.believed 
that in each man lay the germs of wisdom. lie believed that 
no science could be taught; only drawn out. To borrow the 
ideas of another was not to learn; to guide one’s self by the 
judgment of another was blindness. The philosophers, who pre¬ 
tended to teach every thing, could teach nothing; and their ig¬ 
norance was manifest in the very pretension. Each man must 
conquer truth for himself, by rigid struggle with himself. He, 
Socrates, was willing to assist any man when in the pains of 
labor: he could do no more. 

Such being the Method, we cannot wonder at his having at- 
taclied himself to Ethical rather than to Physical speculations. 
Ilis philosophy was a realization of the inscription at Delphos— 
Know Thyself It was in himself that he found the ground of 
certitude which was to protect him against skepticism. It was 
therefore moral science which he prized above all others. In¬ 
deed, we have great reason to believe that his energetic de¬ 
nouncement of Physical speculations, as reported by Xenophon, 
was the natural, though exaggerated, conclusion to which he had 
been hurried by a consideration of the manifold absurdities into 
which they drew the mind, and the skepticism which they in¬ 
duced. There could be nothing but uncertainty on such subjects. 

“ I have not leisure for such things,” he is made to say by Plato, 
“ and I will tell you the reason : I am not yet able, according to 
the Delphic Inscription, to Know myself; and it appears to me 


PHILOSOPHY OF SOCRATES. 


157 


very ridiculous, while ignorant of myself, to inquire into what I 
am not concerned in.”* That he did, however, at one period 
occupy himself with them is clear from other sources, and is a 
point in the comedy of the Clouds , where he is represented “ air- 
treading and speculating about the sun,”— dspo/Iarw xa.l rfspiyp ovw 
cov tjXjov,— and his disciples seeking things hidden underground 
—<ra xard yr,g. This has led many to suppose that Aristophanes 
koew nothing whatever of Socrates, but only took him as an 
available comic type of the Sophists,—a supposition to which there 
are several objections. Firstly, it is not usual in satirists to select 
for their butt a person of whom they know nothing. Secondly, 
Socrates, of all Athenians, was the most notorious, and most easily 
to be acquainted with in a general way. Thirdly, he could not 
be a type of the Sophists, in as far as related to physical specula¬ 
tions, since w T e well know the Sophists scouted physics. Fourth¬ 
ly, he did occupy himself with Physics early in his career; and 
probably did so when Aristophanes satirized him, although in 
after-life he regarded such speculations as trivial. 

It was quite possible that Aristophanes should have made no 
such nice discrimination between the dialectical quibbling of Soc¬ 
rates and that of the Sophists, as would prevent him from repre¬ 
senting Socrates teaching “the art to make the worse appear the 
better reason ;”f but it is scarcely credible that he should have 
made so flagrant a mistake as to accuse Socrates of busying him¬ 
self with Physics, when everyone of the audience could answer that 
Socrates never troubled himself at all about it. In our day Proud¬ 
hon and Louis Blanc are often classed together as teachers of the 
same Socialist doctrines; or Strauss and Feuerbach as teachers 
of the same theological doctrines; but no satirist would laugh at 
Louis Blanc for his astronomical speculations, or at Strauss for his 
devotion to the Microscope. The Aristoplianic evidence, there 
fore, seems perfectly admissible as respects the physical specula¬ 
tions of Socrates at or about the time w r hen the Clouds was pro** 


* Fhaedrus, p. 8. 

13 


t Nubes, v. 112-15. 





158 


SOCRATES. 


dueod. If they were afterwards relinquished, it was because they 
led to no certainty. 

That Philosophy, and not Morals, was really the aim of Socra¬ 
tes, is clear from his subordination of all morals to science. He 
considers Virtue to be identical with Knowledge.* Only the wise 
man, said he, can be brave, just, or temperate. Vice of every 
kind is Ignorance; and involuntary, because ignorant. If a man 
is cowardly, it is because he does not rightly appreciate the im¬ 
portance of life and death. He thinks death an evil, and flees it. 
K he were wise, he would know that death is a good thing, or, 
at the worst, an indifferent one, and therefore would not shun it. 
If a man is intemperate, it is because he is unable to estimate the 
relative value of present pleasure and future pain. Ignorance mis¬ 
leads him. It is the nature of man to seek good and shun evil: 
he would never seek evil, knowing it to be such ; if he seeks it, 
he mistakes it for good : if he is intemperate, it is because he is 
unwise. 

Method was his all-in-all. Nor is it impossible to trace the 
origin of this conception in his mind. The Pythian oracle had 
declared him to be the wisest of men. The assertion greatly 
puzzled him, for he found on deep introspection that he knew 
nothing; all his fancied knowledge was that conceit of knowl¬ 
edge without the reality, which he saw puffing up other men ; 
and his sole distinction was that he knew the depth of his own 


* <f>p ov/jceif wtro ilvai icdoas ras aperaf. —Aristot. Ethic. Nicomacll. vi. IS. 
Plato, in the Meno, makes him maintain that Virtue cannot be Science, can¬ 
not be taught. But this is not Socratic. “ Whether Virtue can be taught 
was a question much agitated in the time of Socrates, who appears to give 
contradictory decisions on different occasions. Comp. Plat. Meno, pp. 96, 98, 
with Protagoras, p. 361, in the latter of which passages he censures his own 
inconsistency, in first denying that Virtue can be taught, and then maintain¬ 
ing that Virtue is Science. Ascending to Xenophon, Mem. i. 2, 19, Socrates 
seems to have adopted the common-sense view that Virtue is partly matter 
of teaching, partly of practice (Sktkt,t6v), and partly of natural disposition. But 
Xenophon was unconscious of the logical difficulty of reconciling this with 
that identification of Virtue with Science or Wisdom which he elsewhere dis¬ 
tinctly attributes to his master.”—Thompson’s Note to Butler's History oj 
Philosophy , i. 374. 



PHILOSOPHY OF SOCRATES. 


159 


ignorance, while they believed themselves to be knowing ; and it 
was because lie knew this that he understood the meaning of the 
oracle. Thus much we have on his explicit authority. If we 
now consider that his title of the “ wisest ” was owing to the 
profound consciousness of the unreality of all which hitherto had 
passed for wisdom (the proof of which was exposed by means of his 
cross-examining Elenchus), we shall be able to understand how it 
was he came to make his Method in and for itself the great aim of 
Philosophy, and how instead of desiring to make converts to any 
system, or to gain acceptance for any special theories on physics 
or ethics, he always and everywhere desired to awaken the cross- 
examining spirit in the minds of his hearers, so that each in his 
own turn might awaken it in others, because in this, and this 
alone, consisted real Wisdom. Previous philosophies had shown 
the futility of speculation ; certitude was nowhere to be had ; all 
such theories were but the conceit of knowledge. The Method 
which he taught was that by which alone man could become 
wiser and better. 

It is clear that the novelty of the Method so completely fasci¬ 
nated him, as to prevent his detecting the confusion he made be¬ 
tween end and means. And the reader may understand how 
such a confusion might very naturally have maintained itself, if 
he reflects how very analogous is the pursuit of purely mathe¬ 
matical science by hundreds who care nothing for the applica¬ 
tions of mathematics. Lying at the base of all physical science 
is a great and complex science of Quantity,—the one indispen¬ 
sable Instrument by means of which Knowledge becomes Science 
(for Science is only quantitative knowledge); but so vast and so 
complex is this Instrument, that numerous intellects are constant¬ 
ly engaged in studying and perfecting it, never once withdrawn 
from it by any attempt at application. In a similar way Socrates, 
and for the most part Plato likewise, cared exclusively for Method; 
perfecting the Instrument of search, rather than seeking. 

Although Socrates was not the first to teach the doctrine of 
the immortality of the soul, he was the first to give it a pliilo- 


160 


SOCEATES. 


sophical basis. Nor can we read without admiration the argu¬ 
ments by which he anticipated writers on Natural Theology, by 
pointing out the evidences of a beneficent Providence. Listen 
to Xenophon: 

“ I will now relate the manner in which I once heard Socra¬ 
tes discoursing with Aristodemus, surnamed the Little , concern¬ 
ing the Deity; for observing that he neither prayed nor sacrificed 
to the Gods, but, on the contrary, ridiculed and laughed at those 
who did, he said to him : 

“ Tell me, Aristodemus, is there any man whom you admire 
on account of his merit ? Aristodemus having answered ‘Many/ 
—Name some of them, I pray you. I admire, said Aristodemus, 
Homer for his Epic poetry, Melanippides for his dithyrambics, 
Sophocles for tragedy, Polycletus for statuary, and Zeuxis for 
painting. 

“But which seems to you most worthy of admiration, Aristo¬ 
demus ?—the artist who forms images void of motion and in¬ 
telligence, or one who hath the skill to produce animals that are 
endued not only with activity, but understanding ?—The latter, 
there can be no doubt, replied Aristodemus, provided the produc¬ 
tion was not the effect of chance, but of wisdom and contrivance.— 
But since there are many things, some of which we can easily 
see the use of, while we cannot say of others to what purpose 
they were produced, which of these, Aristodemus, do you suppose 
the work of wisdom ?—It should seem the most reasonable to 
affirm it of those whose fitness and utility are so evidently ap¬ 
parent. 

“ But it is evidently apparent that He who at the beginning 
made man, endued him with senses because they were good for 
him; eyes, wherewith to behold whatever was visible; and ears, 
to hear whatever was to be heard ; for say, Aristodemus, to what 
purpose should odors be prepared, if the sense of smelling had 
been denied ? or why the distinctions of bitter and sweet, of savory 
and unsavory, unless a palate had been likewise given, convenient¬ 
ly placed, to arbitrate between them and declare the difference ? 


PHILOSOPHY OF SOCEATES. 


161 


Is not that Providence, Aristodemus, in a most eminent manner 
conspicuous, which, because the eye of man is so delicate in its 
contexture, hath therefore prepared eyelids like doors, whereby 
to secure it, which extend of themselves whenever it is needful, 
and again close w r hen sleep approaches ? Are not these eyelids 
provided as it were with a fence on the edge of them, to keep off 
the wind and guard the eye ? Even the eyebrow itself is not 
without its office, but, as a penthouse, is prepared to turn off the 
sweat, which, falling from the forehead, might enter and annoy 
that no less tender than astonishing part of us. Is it not to be 
admired that the ears should take in sounds of every sort, and yet 
are not too much filled by them ? That the fore-teetli of the an¬ 
imal should be formed in such a manner as is evidently best 
suited for the cutting of its food, as those on the side for grinding 
it to pieces? That the mouth, through which this food is con¬ 
veyed, should be placed so near the nose and eyes as to prevent 
the passing unnoticed whatever is unfit for nourishment; while 
Nature, on the contrary, hath set at a distance and concealed 
from the senses all that might disgust or any way offend them ? 
And canst thou still doubt, Aristodemus, whether a disposition 
of parts like this should be the work of chance, or of wisdom and 
contrivance ?—I have no longer any doubt, replied Aristodemus; 
and, indeed, the more I consider it, the more evident it appears 
to me that man must be the masterpiece of some great artificer; 
carrying along with it infinite marks of the love and favor of Him 
w : ho hath thus formed it. 

“And what thinkest thou, Aristodemus, of that desire in the 
individual which leads to the continuance of the species? Of 
that tenderness and affection in the female towards her young, 
so necessary for its preservation ? Of that unremitted love of 
life, and dread of dissolution, which take such strong possession 
of us from the moment w T e begin to be ? I think of them, ans¬ 
wered Aristodemus, as so many regular operations of the same 
great and wise Artist, deliberately determining to preserve what 
he hath made. 


162 


SOCRATES. 


“But, farther (unless thou desirest to ask me questions), seeing, 
Aristodemus, thou thyself art conscious of reason and intelligence, 
supposest thou there is no intelligence elsewhere ? Thou know- 
est thy body to be a small part of that wide extended earth 
which thou everywhere beholdest: the moisture contained in it, 
thou also knowest to be a small portion of that mighty mass of 
waters, whereof seas themselves are but a part, while the rest of 
the elements contribute out of their abundance to thy formation. 
It is the soul then alone, that intellectual part of us, which is 
come to thee by some lucky chance, from I know not where. 
If so be there is indeed no intelligence elsewhere : and we must 
be forced to confess, that this stupendous universe, with all the 
various bodies contained therein,—equally amazing, whether we 
consider their magnitude or number, whatever their use, what¬ 
ever their order,—all have been produced, not by intelligence, 
but by chance!—It is with difficulty that I can suppose other¬ 
wise, returned Aristodemus; for I behold none of those Gods 
whom you speak of as making and governing all things; where¬ 
as I see the artists when at their work here among us.—Neither 
yet seest thou thy soul, Aristodemus, which, however most as¬ 
suredly governs thy body; although it may well seem, by thy 
manner of talking, that it is chance, and not reason, which gov¬ 
erns thee. 

“ I do not despise the Gods, said Aristodemus: on the con¬ 
trary, I conceive so highly of their excellence, as to suppose they 
stand in no need either of me or of my services.—Thou mistakest 
the matter, Aristodemus; the greater magnificence they have 
shown in their care of thee, so much the more honor and service 
thou owest them.—Be assured, said Aristodemus, if I once could 
be persuaded the Gods take care of man, I should want no moni¬ 
tor to remind me of my duty.—And canst thou doubt, Aristo¬ 
demus, if the Gods take care of man ? Hath not the glorious 
privilege of walking upright been alone bestowed on him, whereby 
he may with the better advantage survey what is around him, 
contemplate with more ease those splendid objects which are 


PHILOSOPHY OF SOCRATES. 


163 


above, and avoid the numerous ills and inconveniences which 
would otherwise befall him ? Other animals indeed they have 
provided with feet, by which they may remove from one place 
to another; but to man they have also given hands, with which 
he can form many things for his use, and make himself happier 
than creatures of any other kind. A tongue hath been bestowed 
on every other animal; but what animal, except man, hath the 
power of forming words with it, whereby to explain his thoughts, 
and make them intelligible to others ? 

“ But it is not with respect to the body alone that the Gods 
have shown themselves thus bountiful to man. Their most ex¬ 
cellent gift is that soul they have infused into him, which so far 
surpasses what is elsewhere to be found ;• for by what animal, 
except man, is even the existence of those Gods discovered, who 
have produced and still uphold, in such regular order, this beau¬ 
tiful and stupendous frame of the universe ? What other species 
of creature is to be found that can serve, that can adore them ? 
What other animal is able, like man, to provide against the as¬ 
saults of heat and cold, of thirst and hunger ? that can lay up 
remedies for the time of sickness, and improve the strength nature 
has given by a well-proportioned exercise ? that can receive like 
him information or instruction; or so happily keep in memory 
what he hath seen, and heard, and learnt ? These things being 
so, who seeth not that man is, as it were, a God in the midst of 
this visible creation? so far doth he surpass, whether in the en¬ 
dowments of soul or body, all animals whatsoever that have been 
produced therein; for if the body of the ox had been joined to 
the mind of man, the acuteness of the latter would have stood 
him in small stead, while unable to execute the well-designed 
plan; nor would the human form have been of more use to the 
brute, so long as it remained destitute of understanding! But in 
thee, Aristodemus, hath been joined to a wonderful soul a body 
no less wonderful; and sayest thou, after this, the Gods take no 
thought for me ? What wouldst thou then more to convince 
thee of their care ? 




SOCRATES. 


164 


“ I would they should send and inform me, said Aristodemus, 
what things I ought or ought not to do, in like manner as thou 
sayest they frequently do to thee.—And what then, Aristodemus ? 
supposest thou, that when the Gods give out some oracle to all 
the Athenians they mean it not for thee ? If by their prodigies 
they declare aloud to all Greece, to all mankind, the things 
which shall befall them, are they dumb to thee alone ? And art 
thou the only person whom they have placed beyond their care ? 
Believest thou they would have wrought into the mind of man a 
persuasion of their being able to make him happy or miserable, 
if so be they had no such power ? or would not even man him¬ 
self, long ere this, have seen through the gross delusion ? How 
is it, Aristodemus, thou rememberest or remarkest not, that the 
kingdoms and commonwealths most renowned as well for their 
wisdom as aptiquity, are those whose piety and devotion hath 
been the most observable ? and that even man himself is never 
so well disposed to serve the Deity as in that part of life when 
reason bears the greatest sway, and his judgment is supposed in 
its full strength and maturity ? Consider, my Aristodemus, that 
the soul which resides in thy body can govern it at pleasure; 
why then may not the soul of the universe, which pervades and 
animates every part of it, govern it in like manner ? If thine 
eye hath the power to take in many objects, and these placed at 
no small distance from it, marvel not if the eye of the Deity can 
at one glance comprehend the whole. And as thou perceivest it 
not beyond thy ability to extend thy care, at the same time, to 
the concerns of Athens, Egypt, Sicily, why tliinkest thou, my 
Aristodemus, that the Providence of God may not easily extend 
itself through the whole universe ? 

“ As therefore, among men, we make best trial of the affection 
and gratitude of our neighbor by showing him kindness, and dis¬ 
cover his wisdom by consulting him in his distress, do thou in 
like manner behave towards the Gods; and if thou wouldst ex¬ 
perience what their wisdom and what their love, render thyself 
deserving the communication of some of those divine secrets 


PHILOSOPHY OF SOCRATES. 


165 


which may not be penetrated by man, and are imparted to those 
alone who consult, who adore, who obey the Deity. Then shalt 
thou, my Aristodemus, understand there is a Being whose eye 
pierceth throughout all nature, and whose ear is open to every 
sound; extended to all places, extending through all time; and 
whose bounty and care can know no other bound than those 
fixed by his own creation. 

“ By this discourse, and others of the like nature, Socrates 
taught his friends that they were not only to forbear whatever 
was impious, unjust, or unbecoming before man; but even when 
alone they ought to have a regard to all their actions, since the 
Gods have their eyes continually upon us, and none of our de¬ 
signs can be concealed from them.”* 

To this passage we must add another equally deserving of at¬ 
tention : 

“ Even among all those deities who so liberally bestow on us 
good things, not one of them maketh himself an object of our 
sight. And He who raised this whole universe, and still upholds 
the mighty frame, who perfected every part of it in beauty and 
in goodness, suffering none of these parts to decay through age, 
but renewing them daily with unfading vigor, whereby they are 
able to execute whatever he ordains with that readiness and pre¬ 
cision which surpass man’s imagination; even He, the supreme 
God, who performeth all these wonders, still holds himself invisi¬ 
ble, and it is only in his works that we are capable of admiring 
him. For consider, my Euthydemus, the sun, which seemeth as 
it were set forth to the view of all men, yet suffereth not itself 
to be too curiously examined *, punishing those with blindness 
who too rashly venture so to do; and those ministers of the Gods, 
whom they employ to execute their bidding, remain to us invisi¬ 
ble ; for though the thunderbolt is shot from on high, and break- 
eth in pieces whatever it findeth in its way, yet no one seeth it 
when it falls, when it strikes, or when it retires; neither are the 


* Memorabilia , i. 4. 





166 


SOCRATES. 


winds discoverable to our sight, though we plainly behold the 
ravages they everywhere make, and with ease perceive what 
time they are rising. And if there be any thing in man, my 
Euthydemus, partaking of the divine nature, it must surely be 
the soul which governs and directs him; yet no one considers 
this as an object of his sight. Learn, therefore, not to despise 
those things which you cannot see; judge of the greatness of 
the power by the effects which are produced, and reverence the 
Deity.”* 

In conclusion, we must notice the vexed question of the Demon 
of Socrates. The notion most generally current is that he be¬ 
lieved himself accompanied by a Daemon, or Good Angel, who 
whispered counsels in his ear, and forewarned him on critical oc¬ 
casions. This has been adduced as evidence of his “supersti 
tion and one writer—to be sure he is a Frenchman—makes it 
a text to prove that Socrates was mad.f Olympiodorus said that 
the Daemon only meant Conscience, an explanation which, while 
it effaces the peculiar characteristics of the conception, is at the 
same time totally inapplicable to those cases when the “ Daemonic 
voice” spoke to Socrates concerning the affairs of his friends, as 
w T e read in Plato’s Theages. By other writers the Daemon has 
been considered as purely allegorical. 

The first point necessary to be distinctly understood is, that 
Socrates believed in no special Daemon at all; and to translate 
Plutarch’s treatise into De Genio Socratis, and hence to speak of 
le demon de Socrate, is gross misconception. Nowhere does 
Socrates, in Plato or Xenophon, speak of a genius or demon, but 
always of a daemonic something (to Jajjuwvjov, dcufxoviov tj), or of a 
sign, a voice, a divine sign, a divine voiced The second point 


* Memorabilia , iv. 3. 

t Lelut, Du Demon de Socrate , 1S36. A new edition of this work appeared 
in 1856, and excited a “ sensation.” 

t See passages cited in Zeller, ii. 28 (1846). Mr. Thompson in his note to 
Butler, i. 375, says:—“ Clemens Alexandrinus in one passage conjectures that 
the Saipdviov of Socrates may have been a familiar genius. Strom, v. p. 592. 
This conjecture becomes an assertion in Lactantius (Inst. D. ii. 14) who con- 




PHILOSOPHY OF SOCRATES. 


16T 


necessary to be remembered is, that this “divine voice” was only 
an occasional manifestation, and exercised only a restraining in¬ 
fluence. On the great critical occasions of his life, if the voice 
warned him against any step he was about to take, he unhesi¬ 
tatingly obeyed it; if the voice was unheard, he concluded that 
his proposed step was agreeable to the Gods. Thus, when on 
his trial, he refused to prepare any defence, because when he was 
about to begin it the voice restrained him, whereupon he resign¬ 
ed himself to the trial, convinced that if it were the pleasure of 
the Gods that he should die, he ought in no wise to struggle—if 
it were their pleasure that he should be set free, defence on his 
part was needless. 

This is his own explicit statement; and surely in a Christian 
country abounding in examples of persons believing in direct 
intimations from above, there can be little difficulty in cred¬ 
iting such a statement. Socrates was a profoundly religious 
man; he was moreover, as we learn from Aristotle, a man of 
that bilious melancholic temperament* * which has in all times 
been observed in persons of unusual religious fervor, such as is 
implied in those momentary exaltations of the mind which are 
mistaken for divine visits; and when the rush of thought came 
upon him with strange warning voices, he believed it was the 
Gods who spoke directly to him. Unless we conceive Socrates 
as a profoundly religious man, we shall misconceive the whole 
spirit of his life and teaching. In many respects he was a fanatic, 
but only in the noble sense of the word: a man, like Carlyle, 
intolerant, vehement, “ possessed” by his ideas, but, like Carlyle, 
preserved from all the worst consequences of such intolerance 
and possession by an immense humor and a tender heart. His 

verts the dcBmonium into daemon. Apuleius, it is true, had already led the 
way to this error in his treatise De Deo Socratis. It is adopted without 
scruple by Augustine and other Christian writers ; and, as might have been 
expected, by Ficinus and the earlier moderns, as Stanley and Dacier, in 
whose writings the dcemonium appears full-fledged as “an attendant spirit’' 
or “ good angel.” 

* <t>vmv iu\ay\o\iKfjv ) Aristotle, Problem. 80. 




168 


SOCRATES. 


Saturnine melancholy was relieved by laughter, which softened 
and humanized a spirit otherwise not less vehement than that of 
a Dominic or a Calvin. Thus strengthened and thus softened, 
Socrates stands out as the grandest figure in the world’s Pan* 
theon : the bravest, truest, simplest, wisest of mankind. 


FIFTH EPOCH. 


PARTIAL ADOPTION OF THE SOCRATIC METHOD. 


§ I. The Megaric School.—Euclid. 

Several philosophers,” says Cicero, “ drew from the con¬ 
versations of Socrates very different results; and, according as 
each adopted views 'which harmonized with his own, they in 
their turn became heads of philosophical schools all differing 
amongst each other.” It is one of the peculiarities of a philo¬ 
sophical Method, to adapt itself indiscriminately to all sorts of 
systems. A scientific Method is confined to one : if various and 
opposing systems spring from it, they spring from an erroneous 
or imperfect application of it. 

We must not be surprised therefore to find many contradict¬ 
ory systems claiming the parentage of Socrates. But we must 
be on our guard against supposing that this adaptation to various 
systems is a proof of the excellence of the Socratic Method. It 
is only a proof of its vagueness. It may be accepted as a sigD 
of the great influence exercised upon succeeding philosophers; 
it is no sign that the influence was in the right direction. 

As we said, Socrates had no school; he taught no system. 
He exhibited a Method; and this Method his hearers severally 
applied. Around him "were men of various ages, various tempera* 
ments, and various opinions. He discoursed with each upon his 
own subject: with Xenophon on politics; with Theages or 
Thesetetus on science; with Antisthenes on morals ; with Ion on 
poetry. Some were convinced by him; others were merely re¬ 
futed. The difference between the two is great. Of those who 



170 


THE MEGARIC SCHOOL. 


were convinced, the so-called Socratic Schools were formed; 
those who were only refuted became his enemies. But, ot 
the former, some were naturally only more or less convinced; 
that is, w'ere willing to adopt his opinions on some subjects, but 
remained stubborn on others. These are the imperfect Socratists. 
Amongst the latter was Euclid of Megara. 

Euclid, who must not be confounded with the great Mathe¬ 
matician, w’as born at Megara; date probably between 450 and 
440 b. c. He had early imbibed a great love of philosophy, and 
had diligently studied the writings of Parmenides and the other 
Eleatics. From Zeno he acquired great facility in dialectics; 
and this continued to be his chief excellence even, after his ac¬ 
quaintance with Socrates, who reproved him for it as sophistical. 

His delight in listening to Socrates was so great that he fre¬ 
quently exposed his life to do so. A decree was passed, in con¬ 
sequence of the enmity existing between Athens and Megara, 
that any inhabitant of Megara found in Athens should forfeit his 
life ; Euclid, however, braved the penalty. He frequently came 
to Athens at night, disguised as a female. The distance was 
twenty miles. At the end of his journey he was recompensed 
by the fascinating conversation of Socrates; and he returned to 
meditate on the results of their arguments. 

Brucker’s supposition that a rupture was caused between them 
m consequence of Socrates having reproved Euclid’s disputatious 
tendency, is wholly without foundation, and seems contradicted 
by the notorious fact that when, on the death of Socrates, Plato 
and the majority of the disciples retired to Megara, in fear of 
some popular outbreak of the Athenians, who were in a state of 
rage against all the philosopher’s friends, Euclid received them 
well. Bound by the same ties of friendship towards the illustri¬ 
ous martyr, and sharing some of his opinions, the Socratists made 
some stay in Megara. Differences however arose, as they will 
amongst all communities of the kind. Plato and some others 
returned to Athens, as soon as the state of the public mind ad 
mitted their doing so with safety. The rest remained with Euclid. 


EUCLID. 


171 


“The character of the Megaric doctrine,” says Ritter, “so far 
as it is possible to fix it in the defective state of our information, 
may be briefly given as the Eleatic view enlarged by the So- 
cratic conviction of the moral obligation , and the laws of scientific 
thought .” 

We confess our inability to comprehend this. In Euclid we 
have no hint of “ moral obligationin Socrates we fail to de¬ 
tect the “ laws of scientific thought.” If by the former Ritter 
means, that Euclid gave an Ethical and Socratic meaning to the 
Eleatic doctrine, he is correct; if by the latter he means, that 
Euclid adopted the Socratic Method of Induction and Definitions, 
he is hopelessly wrong; and, if this is not what he means by 
“ laws of scientific thought,” we are at a loss to understand him. 

Euclid agreed with the Eleatics in maintaining that there was 
but One unalterable Being, to be known by Reason only. This 
One Being was not simply The One ; neither was it simply In¬ 
telligence ; it was The Good. This One Being received various 
names according to its various aspects: thus it was sometimes 
Wisdom (typovritfis ); sometimes God ($soV); at others Reason 
(voOk) ; and so forth. This One Good (sv to dyaS ov) is the only 
Being that really exists ; every thing opposed to it has nothing 
but a phenomenal, transitory existence. 

Such is the outline of his doctrine, as presented by Diogenes 
Laertius. In it the reader will have no difficulty in detecting 
both the Eleatic and Socratic elements. The conception of God 
as to dy a(Ev—the Good—is purely Socratic; and the denial of 
any existence to things opposed to the Good is an explanation of 
that passage in Plato’s Republic , where Socrates declares God 
not to be the author of all things, but only of such as are good.'* 

The Megaric doctrine is therefore the Eleatic doctrine, with 
an Ethical tendency borrowed from Socrates, who taught that 
virtue was not any partial cultivation of the human mind, but 
constitutes the true and entire essence of the rational man, and 


* Mn vavTojv airtov rbv Otov, aXXd tuv Ayaddv. —ii. 100. 



172 


THE MEGARIC SCHOOL. 


indeed of the whole universe. The identification of Virtue with 
Wisdom is also Socratic. 

With respect to Euclid’s dialectics there is one point, often 
alluded to, variously interpreted, and which is in direct opposi¬ 
tion to the Method of Socrates. In refuting his adversaries he 
did not attack the premises, hut the conclusion.* This is cer¬ 
tainly not the manner of Socrates, who always managed to draw 
new conclusions from old premises, and who, as Xenophon says, 
proceeded from the generally known to the less known. As if 
to mark this distinction more completely, we are told that Euclid 
rejected the analogical mode of reasoning (<rov <hd rfapafioXys 
Xoyov). If, said he, the things compared are alike, it is better to 
confine the attention to that originally in question ; if the things 
compared are unlike, there must be error in the conclusion. 
This precept strikes into the weakness of Socrates’ method of 
induction; which was a species of analogical reasoning not of 

the highest order. 

© 

In dialectics therefore we see Euclid following out the Eleatic 
tendency, and carrying forward the speculations of Zeno. It . 
was this portion of his doctrine that his immediate followers, 
Eubulides, Diodorus, and Alexinus, undertook to carry out. The 
Socratic element was further developed by Stilpo. 

“ The majority of the later members of the Megaric School,” 
says Ritter, “ are famous either for the refutation of opposite doc¬ 
trines, or for the invention and application of certain fallacies; 
on which account they were occasionally called Eristici and Dia¬ 
lectic!. Still it may be presumed that they did not employ 
these fallacies for the purposes of delusion, but of instructing 
rash and hasty thinkers, and exemplifying the superficial vanitv 
of common opinion. At all events, it is certain that they were 
mainly occupied with the forms of thought, more perhaps with a 

* Diog. Laert. ii. 107. This is paraphrased by Enfield into the following 
contradictory statement“ He judged that legitimate argumentation con¬ 
sists in deducing fair conclusions from acknowledged premises.”— Hist, of 
Phil. i. 199. 




ARISTIPPUS. 173 

view to the discovery of particular rules, than to the foundation 
of a scientific system or method. ” 

§ II. The Cyrenaic School.—Aristippus. 

Among the “imperfect Socratists” we must rank Aristippus, 
the founder of the Cyrenaic School, which borrowed its name 
from the birthplace of its founder—Cyrene, in Africa. 

Aristippus -was descended from wealthy and distinguished pa¬ 
rents, and was consequently thrown iuto the vortex of luxurious 
debauchery which then characterized the colony of Minyse. He 
came over to Greece to attend the Olympic games: there he 
heard so much of the wisdom of Socrates that he determined on 
listening to his enchanting discourse. He made Socrates an offer 
of a large sum of money, which, as usual, w*as declined. The 
great Talker did not accept money; but he willingly admitted 
Aristippus among the number of his disciples. It is commonly 
asserted that the pupil did not agree well with his master, and 
that his fondness for pleasure w r as offensive to Socrates. There 
is no good authority for such an assertion. He remained with 
Socrates until the execution of the latter; and there was no bond 
on either side to have prevented their separation as soon as they 
disagreed. The impression seems to have originated in the dis¬ 
cussion reported by Xenophon,* wherein Aristippus expresses 
his political indifference, and Socrates, by an exaggerated extern 
sion of logic, endeavors to prove his views to be absurd. But 
this is simply a divergence of opinion, such as must have existed 
between Socrates and many of his followers. It merely shows 
that Aristippus thought for himself. Socrates with such men as 
Aristippus and Alcibiades reminds one of Dr. Johnson with the 
“young bloods” Topham Beauclerk and Bennet Langton: he 
was wise enough and tolerant enough not to allow his virtue to 
be scandalized by their love of pleasure. 

From Athens he went to AEgina, where he met with Lais, the 


14 


* Memorabilia , ii. 1. 



174 


THE CYRENAIC SCHOOL. 


world-renowned courtesan, whom lie accompanied to Corinth. 
On his way from Corinth to Asia he was shipwrecked on the 
island of Rhodes. On the sea-coast he discovered a geometrical 
diagram, and exclaimed, “Take courage; I see here the footsteps 
of men.” On arriving at the principal tow r n, he managed to 
procure for himself and friends a hospitable reception. He used 
to say, “ Send two men amongst strangers, and you will see the 
advantage of the philosopher.” 

Aristippus was one of those 

“ Children of the Sun, whose blood is fire 
but to strong sensual passions he united a calm regulative intel¬ 
lect. Prone to luxury, he avoided excess. Easy and careless in 
ordinary affairs, he had great dominion over his desires. Pleas¬ 
ure was his grand object in life; but he knew how to temper 
enjoyment with moderation. In disposition he was easy and 
yielding, a “fellow of infinite mirth,” a philosopher whose brow 
was never “sickbed o’er with the pale cast of thought.” He 
had none of that dignity which mistakes a stiff neck for healthy 
virtue. He had no sternness. Gay, brilliant, careless, and en¬ 
joying, he became the ornament and delight of the Court of 
Dionysius; that Court already illustrious by the splendid genius 
■of Plato and the rigid abstinence of Diogenes. The grave de- 
• jportment of Plato and the savage virtue of Diogenes had less 
.charm for the Tyrant than the easy gayety of Aristippus, whose 
very vices w’ere elegant. His ready wit was often put to the 
test. On one occasion three hetcerce were presented for him to 
imake a choice: he took them all three, observing that it had 
. been fatal even to Paris to make a choice. On another occasion, 
in a dispute with AEschines, who w^as becoming violent, he said : 
•“ Let us give over. We have quarrelled, it is true; but I, as 
•your senior, have a right to claim the 'precedency in the reconcil¬ 
iation”* In his old-age he appears to have returned to Cyrene, 
; and there opened his school. 


Several of his repartees are recorded by Laertius. We add the best o! 



ARISTIPPUS. 


175 


His philosophy, as Hegel remarks, takes its color from his per¬ 
sonality. So individual is it, that we should have passed it over 
entirely, had it not been a precursor of Epicureanism. Its rela¬ 
tion to Socrates is also important. 

In the only passage in which, as far as we know, Aristotle* 
mentions Aristippus, he speaks of him as a Sophist. What does 
this mean? Was he one of the professed Sophists? No. It 
means, we believe, that he shared the opinion of the Sophists re¬ 
specting the uncertainty of Science. That he did share this 
opinion is evident from Sextus Empiricus ,\ who details his rea¬ 
sons : such as, that external objects make different impressions 
on different senses; the names which we impose on these objects 
express our sensations, but do not express the things; there is 
no criterium of truth; each judges according to his impressions; 
none judge correctly. 

In so far he was a Sophist; but, as the disciple of Socrates, 
he learned that the criterium of truth must be sought within. 
He dismissed with contempt all physical speculations, as subjects 
beyond human comprehension, and concentrated his researches 
upon the moral constitution of man. 

In so far he was a Socratist. But, although he took his main 
direction from Socrates, yet his own individuality quickly turned 
him into by-paths which his master would have shunned. His 
was not a scientific intellect. Logical deduction, which was 
the rigorous process of his master, suited neither his views nor 
his disposition. He was averse from abstract speculations. His 

them:—Scinus, the treasurer of Dionysius, a man of low character but im¬ 
mense wealth, once showed Aristippus over his house. While he was expa¬ 
tiating on the splendor of every part, even to the floors, the philosopher spat 
in his face. Scinus was furious. “Pardon me,” exclaimed Aristippus, 
“there was no other place where I could have spat with decency.” One 
day, in interceding with the Tyrant for a friend, he threw himself on his 
knees. Being reproached for such want of dignity, he answered, “ Is it my 
fault if Dionysius has his ears in his feet?” One day he asked the Tyrant 
for some money. Dionysius made him own that a philosopher had no need 
of money. “ Give, give,” replied Aristippus, “and we will settle the ques¬ 
tion at once.” Dionysius gave. “ Now ,” said the philosopher, “ I have no 
need of money.” * Meta/ph. iii. 2. f Adv. Math. vii. 173. 



176 


THE CYRENAIC SCHOOL. 


tendency was directly towards the concrete. Hence, while Soc¬ 
rates was preaching about The Good, Aristippus wished to spe¬ 
cify what it was; and resolved it into Pleasure. It was the pith 
and kernel of Socrates’ Ethical system, that Happiness was the 
aim and desire of all men—the motor of all action; men only 
erred because of erroneous notions of what constituted Happi¬ 
ness. Thus the wise man alone knew that to endure an injury 
was better than to inflict it; he alone knew that immoderate 
gratification of the senses, being followed by misery, did not 
constitute Happiness, but the contrary. Aristippus thought this 
too vague. He not only reduced this general idea to a more 
specific one, namely, Pleasure; he endeavored to show how 
truth had its only criterium in the sensation of pleasure or of 
pain. Of that which is without us we can know nothing truly; 
we only know through our senses, and our senses deceive us 
with respect to objects. But our senses do not deceive us with 
respect to our sensations. We may not perceive things truly; 
but it is true that we perceive. We may doubt respecting ex¬ 
ternal objects; we cannot doubt respecting our sensations. 
Amongst those sensations we naturally seek the repetition of 
such as are pleasurable, and shun those that are painful. 

Pleasure, then, as the only positive good, and as the only pos¬ 
itive test of what was good, he declared to be the end of life; 
but, inasmuch as for constant pleasure the soul must preserve its 
dominion over desires, this pleasure was only another form of the 
Socratic temperance. It is distinguished from the Socratic con¬ 
ception of Pleasure, however, in being positive, and not merely 
the gratification of a waut. In the Plicedo , Socrates, on beino- 
released from his chains, reflects upon the intimate connection 
of pleasure and pain; and calls the absence of pain, pleasure. 
Aristippus, on the contrary, taught that pleasure is not the mere 
removal of pain: they are both positive emotions; non-pleasure 
and non-pain are not emotions, but as it were the sleep of the soul.* 


* Diog. Laert. ii. 89. 



ANTISTHENES. 


ITT 


In the application of this doctrine to ethics, Aristippus be* 
trays both his Sophistic and Socratic education. With the 
Sophists he regarded pleasure and pain as the proper criteria of 
actions; no action being in itself either good or bad, but only 
such according to convention. With Socrates, however, he re¬ 
garded the advantages acquired by injustice to be trifling; 
whereas the evils and apprehensions of punishment are consid¬ 
erable; and pleasure was the result, not of individual prosperity 
alone, but of the welfare of the whole State. 

In reviewing the philosophy, such as it was, of Aristippus, we 
cannot fail to be struck with the manifest influence of Socrates; 
although his method was not followed, we see the ethical ten¬ 
dency predominating. In the Megaric School the abstract idea 
of The Good (ro ayado'v) of Socrates, was grounded on the Eleatic 
conception of The One. In the Cyrenaic, the abstract concep¬ 
tion was reduced to the concrete, Pleasure; and this became 
the only ground of certitude, and morals the only science. In 
the Cynic School we shall see a still further development in this 
direction. 

§ III. The Cynics.—Antisthenes and Diogenes. 

Cynicism is an imposing blasphemy. It imposed on antiquity ; 
it has imposed on many modern imaginations by the energy of 
its self-denials; but it is a “blasphemy against the divine beauty 
of life,” blasphemy against the divinity of man. To lead the 
life of a Dog is not the vocation of Man. 

Nevertheless there were some points both in the characters 
and doctrines of the founders of this School which may justly 
claim the admiration of mankind. Their contemporaries re¬ 
garded them with feelings mingled with awe. We at least may 
pay a tribute to their energy. 

Antisthenes was born at Athens, of a Phrygian mother. In 
early life he distinguished himself at the battle of Tanagra. 
After this he studied under Gorgias, the Sophist, and established 
a school for himself; but, captivated by the practical wisdom ot 


178 


TIIE CYNICS. 


Socrates, he ceased to teach, and became once more a pupil 
nay more, he persuaded all his pupils to come with him to 
Socrates, and there learn true wisdom. This is genuine mod¬ 
esty, such as philosophers have rarely exhibited. He w'as then 
somewhat advanced in life; his opinions on many points were 
too deeply rooted to be exchanged for others; but the tendency 
of the Socratic philosophy towards Ethics, and the character of 
that system as leading to the moral perfection of man, seemed 
entirely to captivate him. It will be remembered that Socrates 
did not teach positive doctrines; he enabled each earnest thinker 
to evolve a doctrine for himself. All Socrates did, was to give 
an impulsion in a certain direction, and to furnish a certain 
Method. His real disciples accepted the Method; his imperfect 
disciples only accepted the impulsion. Antisthenes was of the 
latter. Accordingly his system was essentially personal. He 
was stern, and his doctrine was rigid; he was proud, and his 
doctrine was haughty; he was cold, and his doctrine was un¬ 
sympathizing and self-isolating; he was brave, and his doctrine 
was a battle. The effeminacy of the luxurious he despised; the 
baseness of courtiers and flatterers he hated. He worshipped 
Virtue; but it was Virtue sometimes ferocious and unbending. 

Even whilst with Socrates he displayed his contempt of ordi¬ 
nary usages, and his pride in differing from other meu. He 
used to appear in a threadbare cloak, with ostentatious povertv. 
Socrates saw through it all, and exclaimed, “I see your vanity, 
Antisthenes, peering through holes in your cloak!” How dif¬ 
ferent was this from Socrates! He, too, had inured himself to 
poverty, to heat, and to cold, in order that he might bear the 
chances of fortune; but he made no virtue of beino- racked, 
hungry, and cold. Antisthenes thought he could only preserve 
his virtue by becoming a savage. He wore no garment except a 
coarse cloak; allowed his beard to grow; carried a w'allet and a 
staff; and renounced all diet but the simplest. His manners 
corresponded to his appearance. Stern, reproachful, and bitter 
in his language; careless and indecent in his gestures. His con- 


DIOGENES. 170 

tempt of all sensual enjoyment was expressed in his saying, “ I 
would rather be mad than sensual !”* 

On the death of Socrates he formed a school, and chose for 
his place of meeting a public place in that quarter of Athens 
called the Cynosarges, from which some say the sect of Cynics 
derives its name; others derive it from the snarling propensities 
of the founder, who was frequently called “The Dog.” As he 
grew old, his gloomy temper became morose: he became so in¬ 
supportable that all his scholars left him, except Diogenes of 
Sinope, who was with him at his death. In his last agony, 
Diogenes asked him whether he needed a friend. “ Will a friend 
release me from this pain ?” he replied. Diogenes gave him a 
dagger, saying, “This will.” “I wish to be freed from pain, 
not from life,” was the reply. 

The contempt he uniformly expressed for mankind may be 
read in two of his sayings. Being asked, what was the peculiar 
advantage to be derived from philosophy, he answered, “ It en¬ 
ables me to keep company with myself.” Being told that he 
was greatly praised by many, “ Have I done any thing wrong, 
then, that I am praised ?” he asked.f 

Diogenes of Sinope is generally remembered as the represen¬ 
tative of Cynicism; probably because more anecdotes of his life 
have descended to us. He was the son of a banker at Sinope, 
who was convicted of debasing the coin; an affair in which the 
son was also supposed to have been implicated. Diogenes fled 
to Athens. From the heights of splendor and extravagance, he 
found himself reduced to squalid poverty. The magnificence of 
poverty, which Antisthenes proclaimed,]; attracted him. Poor, 


* It is thus we would interpret Diog. Laert. vi. 8:— Mavcirjv jmAAov ^ 
faOdnv. Ritter gives this version:—“I had rather go mad than experience 
pleasure which is an outrageous sentiment. 

f Dr. Enfield, who generally manages to introduce some blunder into 
every page, has spoiled this repartee, by giving it as a reply to the praise of 
a bad man. Yet the language of Diogenes Laertius is very explicit:—IIoAAo/ 
ve itraKtvoviu (vi. 8). 

% See the Banquet of Xenophon. 



180 


THE CYNICS. 


he was ready to embrace the philosophy of poverty; an outcast, 
he was ready to isolate himself from society; branded with dis¬ 
grace, he w T as ready to shelter himself under a philosophy which 
branded ail society. Having in his own person experienced how 
little wealth and luxury can do for the happiness of man, he was 
the more incliued to try the converse; having experienced how 
wealth prompts to vice, and how desires generate desires, he was 
willing to try the efficacy of poverty and virtue. He went to 
Antisthenes; was refused. He continued to offer himself to 
the Cynic as a scholar; the Cynic raised his knotty staff, and 
threatened to strike him if he did not depart. “ Strike!” re¬ 
plied Diogenes; “you will not find a stick hard enough to con¬ 
quer my perseverance.” Antisthenes, overcome, accepted him 
as a pupil. 

To live a life of virtue was henceforward his sole aim. That 
virtue was Cynicism. It consisted in the complete renunciation 
of all luxury—the subjugation of all sensual desires. It was a 
war carried on by the Mind against the Body. As with the 
Ascetics of a later day, the basis of a pure life was thought to be 
the annihilation of the Body; the nearer any one approached to 
such a suicide, the nearer he was to the ideal of virtue. The 
Body was vile, filthy, degraded, and degrading; it was the curse 
c* man; it was the clog upon the free development of Mind; it 
was wrestled with, hated, and despised. This beautiful Body, 
so richly endowed for enjoyment, was regarded as the “ sink of 
all iniquity.” 

Accordingly, Diogenes limited his desires to necessities. He 
ate little; and what he ate was of the coarsest. He tried to 
live upon raw meat and unboiled vegetables, but failed. His 
dress consisted solely of a cloak: when he asked Antisthenes for 
a shirt, he was told to fold his cloak in two; he did so. A wal¬ 
let and a huge stick completed his accoutrements. Seeing a 
little boy drinking water out of his scooped hand, he threw 
away his cup, declaring it superfluous. He slept under the 
marble porticoes of the buildings, or in his celebrated Tub, 


DIOGENES. 


181 


which was his place of residence. He took his meals in public. 
In public he performed all those actions which decency has con¬ 
demned to privacy. Decency of every kind he studiously out¬ 
raged. It was a part of his system to do so. Every thing, not 
in itself improper, ought, he said, to be performed publicly. 
Besides, he was wont to annoy people with indecent gestures; 
had he a philosophical reason for that also ? 

Doubts have been expressed respecting his Tub, which, it is 
thought, was only an occasional residence, and used by him as 
expressive of his contempt for luxury. AVe incline, however, to 
the tradition. It is in keeping with all w r e know of the man; 
and that a Tub could suffice for a domicile we may guess from 
Aristophanes.* 

It is not difficult to imagine the effect created by the Cynics 
in the gay, luxurious city of Athens. There the climate, no less 
than the prevailing manners, incited every one to enjoyment. 
The Cynics told them that enjoyment was unworthy of men; 
that there were higher and purer things for man to seek. To 
the polished elegance of Athenian manners the Cynics opposed 
the most brutal coarseness they could assume. To the friendly 
flatteries of conversation they opposed the bitterest pungencies 
of malevolent frankness. They despised all men; and told 
them so. 

Now, although w r e cannot but regard Cynicism as a very pre¬ 
posterous doctrine—as a feeble solution of the great problem of 
morals, and not a very anr.able feebleness—we admit that it re¬ 
quired some great qualities in its upholders. It required a great 
rude energy; a fanatical logicality of mind; a power over self,— 
narrow it may be, but still a power. These qualities are not 
common qualities, and therefore they command respect. Any 
deviation from the beaten path implies a certain resolution; a 
steady and consistent deviation implies force. All men respect 

* Knights , 793: the people are there spoken of as having been forced to 
live, during the war, in “ pigeon-holes and corners of turrets:” yvxaptois tea, 
rvpyiiiois; unless, indeed, this is purely a metaphorical expression. 



182 


THE CYNICS. 


force. The power of subjugating ordinary desires to one remote 
but calculated end, always impresses men with a sense of unusua 
power. Few are aware that to regulate desires is more difficult 
than to subjugate them—requires greater power of mind, greater 
will, greater constancy. Yet every one knows that abstinence is 
easier than temperance: on the same principle, it is easier to be 
a Cynic than a wise and virtuous Epicurean. 

That which prevents our feeling the respect for the Cynics 
which the ancients seem to have felt, and wTiich, indeed, some 
portions of the Cynical doctrine would otherwise induce us to 
feel, is the studious and uncalled-for outrages on common decen¬ 
cy and humanity which Diogenes, especially, perpetrated. All 
the anecdotes that have come down to us seem to reveal a snarl¬ 
ing and malevolent spirit, worshipping Virtue only because it 
was opposed.to the vices of contemporaries; taking a pride in 
poverty and simplicity only because others sought wealth and 
luxury. It may be well to raise an earnest protest against the 
vices of one's age; but it is not well to bring virtue into discredit 
by the manner of the protest. Doubtless the Athenians needed 
reproof and reformation, and some exaggeration on the opposite 
side might have been allowed to the reformers. But Diogenes 
was so feeble in doctrine, so brutal in manner, that we doubt 
whether the debauchery of the first profligate in that profligate 
city were more reprehensible than the debauchery of pride which 
disgraced the Cynic. The whole character of the man is exhib¬ 
ited in one anecdote. Plato had given a splendid entertainment 
to some friends. Diogenes entered, unbidden, and stamping on 
the rich carpets, said, “ Thus I trample on the pride of Plato;” 
whereupon Plato admirably replied, “With greater pride, 0 
Diogenes.” 

Diogenes, doubtless, practised great abstinence. He made a 
virtue of his necessity; and, being poor, resolved to be ostenta¬ 
tiously poor. The ostentation being novel, was mistaken for 
something greater than it was; being in contradiction to the 
universal tendency of his contemporaries, it w r as supposed to 


DIOGENES. 


183 


spring from higher motives. There are men who bear poverty 
meekly; there are men who look upon wealth without envy, 
certain that wealth does not give happiness; there are men 
whose souls are so fixed on higher things as utterly to disregard 
the pomps and shows of the world; but none of these despise 
wealth, they disregard it; none of these display their feelings, 
they are content to act upon them. The virtue which is loud, 
noisy, ostentatious, and self-affirmative, looks very like an obtru¬ 
sive egoism. And this was the virtue of the Cynics. Pretend- 
iug to reform mankind, it began by blaspheming humanity; 
pretending to correct the effeminacies of the age, it studiously 
outraged all the decencies of life. Eluding the real difficulty of 
the problem, it pretended to solve it by unabashed insolence. 

In his old age Diogenes was taken captive by pirates, who 
carried him to Crete, and exposed him for sale as a slave. On 
being asked what he could do, he replied, “ Govern men: sell 
me, therefore, to one who wants a master.” Xeniades, a wealthy 
Corinthian, struck with this reply, purchased him, and, on re¬ 
turning to Corinth, gave him his liberty and consigned his chil¬ 
dren to his education. The children were taught to be Cynics, 
much to their own satisfaction. It was during this period that 
his world-renowned interview with Alexander took place. The 
prince, surprised at not seeing Diogenes joining the crowd of his 
flatterers, w T ent to see him. He found the Cynic sitting in his 
tub, basking in the sun. “I am Alexander the Great,” said he. 
“ I am Diogenes the Cynic,” was the reply. Alexander then 
asked him if there was any thing he could do for him. “ \ es, 
stand aside from between me and the sun.” Surprised at such 
indifference to princely favor—an indifference so strikingly con¬ 
trasted with every thing he could hitherto have witnessed—he 
exclaimed, “Were I not Alexander, I would be Diogenes!” One 
day, being brought before the King, and being asked who he 
was, Diogenes replied, “ A spy on your cupidity;” language, the 
boldness of which must have gained him universal admiration, 
because implying great singularity as well as force of character. 


1ST 


THE CYNICS. 


Singularity and Insolence may be regarded as his grand char¬ 
acteristics. Both of these are exemplified in the anecdote of his 
lighting a lamp in the daytime, and peering about the streets as 
if earnestly seeking something: being asked what he sought, he 
replied, “ A Man.” The point of this story is lost in the usual 
version, which makes him seek “ an honest man.” The words 
in Laertius are simply, ccvfywtfov —“ I seek a man.” Diog¬ 

enes did not seek honesty; he wanted to find a Man, in whom 
honesty would be included with many other qualities. It was 
his constant reproach to his contemporaries, that they had no 
manhood. He said he had never seen men; at Sparta he had 
seen children; at Athens, women. One day he called out, 
“Approach, all men!” "When some approached, he beat them 
back with his club, saying, “ I called for men; ye are excre¬ 
ments.” 

Thus he lived till his ninetieth year, bitter, brutal, ostenta¬ 
tious, and abstemious; disgracing the title of “ The Dog” (for a 
dog has affection, gratitude, sympathy, and caressing manners), 
yet growling over his unenvied virtue as a cur growls over his 
meatless bone, forever snarling and snapping without occasion ; 
an object of universal attention, and from many quarters, of un¬ 
feigned admiration. One day his friends went to see him. On 
arriving at the portico under which he was wont to sleep, they 
found him still lying on the ground wrapped in his cloak. He 
seemed to sleep. They pushed aside the folds of his cloak : he 
was dead.* 

The Doctrine of the Cynics may be briefly expounded. Antis 
thenes, as the disciple of Gorgias, was imbued with the sophistical 
principles respecting Science; principles which his acquaintance 
with Socrates did not alter. He maintained that Science was 
impossible. He utterly rejected the Socratic notion of Defini- 

* It was thought that he had committed suicide by holding his breath,—a 
physical impossibility. Other versions of the cause of his death were cur¬ 
rent in antiquity; one of them seems consistent with his character; it makes 
him die in consequence of devouring a neat’s foot raw. 




THE CYNICS. 


185 


tions. He said that a Definition was nothing hut a series of 
words (Xoyov /xaxpov, “ a long discourse”); for which Aristotle 
calls him an ignoramus.* To the Socratic notion of a Defini¬ 
tion, as including the essence of a thing, he opposed the Sophistic 
notion of a Definition, as expressing a purely subjective relation. 
You can only express qualities, not essences; you can call a 
thing silver, but you cannot say in what it consists. Your defi¬ 
nition is only verbal: hence the first step in education should be 
the study of words.f 

What was the consequence of this skepticism ? The conse¬ 
quence was, that the Cynics answered arguments by facts. 
When some one was arguing in support of Zeno of Elea’s notion 
respecting the impossibility of movement, Diogenes rose and 
walked. Definitions might prove that there was no motion; 
but definitions were only verbal, and could be answered by facts. 

This refuge found in common-sense against the assaults of 
logic, enabled the Cynics to shape a doctrine of morals which 
had some certain basis. As they answered arguments by facts, 
so they made actions take the place of precepts. Instead of 
speculating about virtue, they endeavored to be virtuous. Soc¬ 
rates had brought philosophy from the clouds; the Cynics 
endeavored to bring it into daily practice. Their personal dispo¬ 
sitions gave the peculiar coloring to their doctrine, as that of 
Aristippus had done to the Cyrenaic. 


* 'kvaiitHTos. — Metaph. viii. 3. 

t Arrian, Epictet ., Diss. i. 17, quoted in Bitter and Preller, Hist. Philos. 
Grceco-Romance exfontium locis contexta (Hamburg, 183S), p. 174. 



SIXTH EPOCH. 


COMPLETE ADOPTION AND APPLICATION OF THE SOCK AT IC 

METHOD.—PLATO. 


§ I. Life of Plato. 

Perhaps of all ancient writers, Plato’s name is the best known. 
Homer himself is unknown to many who have some dim notion 
of Plato as the originator of the so-called Platonic love. There 
is a great and wide-spread interest about the Grecian sage. The 
young and romantic have strange, romantic ideas of him. “ The 
general reader,” especially if a dabbler in fashionable philosophy, 
or rather in the philosophy current in fashionable novels, has a 
very exalted notion of him as the “ great Idealist.” The theo¬ 
logical reader regards him with affection, as the stout and elo¬ 
quent upholder of the doctrine of the immateriality and immor¬ 
tality of the soul. The literary critic often regards him as the 
type of metaphysical eloquence, and classes with him every 
vapory, mystical, metaphorical writer of “ poetical philosophy.” 

Now, except that of the theologian, these notions, derived at 
second-hand, are all false. It would be idle to inquire how such 
extravagant opinions came into circulation. Enough for us that 
they are false. Plato was any thing but “ dreamy ;” any thing 
but “an Idealist,” as that phrase is usually understood. He was 
an inveterate dialectician, a severe and abstract thinker, and a 
great quibbler. His metaphysics are of a nature to frighten 
away all but the most determined students, so abstract and so 
subtle are they. His morals and politics, so far from having any 
romantic tinge, are the ne plus ultra of logical severity; hard, 



LIFE OF PLATO. 


187 


uncompromising, and above humanity. In a word, Plato the 
man was almost completely absorbed in Plato the Dialecti¬ 
cian : he had learned to look upon human passion as a dis¬ 
ease, and human pleasure as a frivolity. The only thing worth 
living for was truth. Dialectics was the noblest exercise of hu¬ 
manity. 

Even the notions respecting his style are erroneous. It is not 
the “ poetical” metaphorical style usually asserted. It has un¬ 
mistakable beauties, but not the beauties popularly attributed 
to it. Its immense power is dramatic power. The best dia¬ 
logues are inimitable scenes of comedy. Character, banter, 
irony, and animation are there, but scarcely any imagery, and 
that seldom beautiful.* His object was to refute or to convince; 
his illustrations are therefore homely. When fit occasion arrives 
lie can be eloquent and familiar. He clothes some myths in 
language of splendid beauty; and there are many felicitous 
passages scattered through the dreary waste of dialectical quib¬ 
bling and obscurity. These passages have been quoted by vari¬ 
ous writers; hence readers have supposed that Plato always 
wrote in such strains. But very fine passages are also to be 
found in Aristotle, who is nevertheless a repulsive writer on the 
whole. 

In truth, Plato is a very difficult, and, as far as regards matter, 
somewhat tedious writer; this is the reason of his being so little 
read : for we must not be deceived by the many editions. He is 
often mentioned and often quoted at second-hand; but he is 
rarely read, except by professed scholars and critics. Men of 
culture usually attack a dialogue or two out of curiosity. Their 
curiosity seldom inspirits them to further progress. The difficul- 

* “ Even upon abstract subjects, whether moral, metaphysical, or mathe¬ 
matical, the language of Plato is clear as the running stream; and in sim¬ 
plicity and sweetness vies with the humble violet which perfumes the vale.” 
— Dr. Enfield , Hist, of Phil. ii. 221. Whenever you meet with such trash as 
this, be dubious that the writer of it ever read Plato. Aristotle capitally 
describes Plato’s style as “a middle species of diction between verse and 
prose.” It has rhythm rather than imagery. 



188 


LIFE OF PLATO. 


ty of mastering the ideas, and their unsatisfactory nature when 
mastered, are barriers to any general acquaintance with Plato. 
But those who persevere believe themselves repaid; the journey 
has been difficult, but it was worth performing. 

Aristocles, surnamed Plato (the broad-browed),* the son of 
Ariston and Perictione, was born at Athens or iEgina, 01. 87.3, 
on the 7th Thargelion (about the middle of May, b. c. 430). 
His childhood and youth consequently synchronize with the 
Peloponnesian war, the most active and brilliant period of Gre¬ 
cian thought and action. His lineage was illustrious: on the 
maternal side he was connected with Solon. 

So great a name could not escape becoming the nucleus of 
many fables, and we find the later historians gravely repeating 
various miraculous events connected with him. He was said to 
be the child of Apollo, his mother a virgin. Ariston, though 
betrothed to Perictione, delayed his marriage because Apollo 
had appeared to him in a dream, and told him that she was with 
child. 

Plato’s education was excellent; and in gymnastics he was 
sufficiently skilled to contend at the Pythian and Isthmian games. 
Like a true Greek, he attached extreme importance to gymnas¬ 
tics, as doing for the body what dialectics did for the mind; and, 
like a true Greek, he did not suffer these corporeal exercises to 
absorb all his time and attention: poetry, music, and rhetoric 
were assiduously cultivated, and w r ith some success. He wrote 
an epic poem, besides some tragedies, dithyrambics, lyrics, and 
epigrams. The epic he is said to have burned in a fit of despair 
on comparing it with Homer. The tragedies he burned on be- 


* Some writers incline to the opinion that “Plato” was the epithet of 
broad-browed; others of broad-shouldered; others, again, that it was ex¬ 
pressive of the breadth of his style. This last is absurd. The author of the 
article Plato in the Penny Cyclopedia pronounces all the above explanations 
to be “ idle, as the name of Plato was of common occurrence among the 
Athenians of that time.” But surely Aristocles W’as not endowed with this 
surname of Plato without cause ? Unless he derived the name from a rela¬ 
tion, he must have derived it from one of the above causes. 



LIFE OF PLATO. 


189 


coming acquainted with Socrates. The epigrams have been par¬ 
tially preserved. One of them is very beautiful: 

’Aaripas tioaOpels, atrrrip tp6s' cide ytvoip-qv 
Ovpavbs, us -jtoWois ippaaiv tis are (3\tnu. 

“ Thou gazest on the stars, my Life! Ah ! gladly would I be 
Yon starry skies, with thousand eyes, that I might gaze on thee !” 

His studies of poetry were mingled with those of philosophy, 
which he must have cultivated early; for we know that he was 
only twenty when he first went to Socrates, and w r e also know 
that he had been taught by Cratylus before he knew Socrates. 
Early he must have felt 

“ A presence that disturbed him with the joy 
Of elevated thoughts ; a sense sublime 
Of something far more deeply interfused, 

Whose dwelling is the light of setting suns, 

And the round ocean, and the living air, 

And the blue sky, and in the mind of man: 

A motion and a spirit that impels 

All thinking things, all objects of all thought, 

And rolls through all things.” 

A deep and meditative spirit led him to question Nature in 
her secret haunts. The sombre philosophy of Heraclitus suited 
well with his melancholy youth. Skepticism, which was the 
fever of that age, had seized on Plato as on all the rest. This 
skepticism, together with an imperious craving for belief which 
struggled with the skepticism, found breathing-room in the doc¬ 
trines of Socrates; and the young scholar learned that without 
impugning the justice of his doubts, he could escape them by 
seeking Truth elsewhere. 

He remained with Socrates ten years, and was separated from 
him only by death. He attended his beloved master during the 
trial; undertook to plead his cause; indeed, began a speech 
which the violence of the judges would not allow him to con¬ 
tinue ; and pressed his master to accept a sum of money suffi¬ 
cient to purchase his life. 

On the death of Socrates he went to Megara to visit Euclid, 
as we mentioned before. From thence he proceeded to Cyrene. 

15 


190 


LIFE OF PLATO. 


where lie was instructed in mathematics by Theodorus, whom 
he had known in Athens, if we may credit the Thecetetus , where 
Theodorus is represented discoursing with Socrates. From Cy- 
rene he went to Egypt, in company, it is said, with Euripides. 
There is very little authority for this visit, and that Euripides 
was his companion is not very probable, because Euripides had 
been dead some years. The influence of Egypt on Plato has 
certainly been exaggerated. There is no trace, in his works, of 
Egyptian research. “All he tells us of Egypt indicates at most 
a very scanty acquaintance with the subject; and although he 
praises the industry of the priests, his estimate of their scientific 
attainments is far from favorable.”* 

In these travels the broad-browed meditative man greatly en¬ 
larged the Socratic doctrine, and indeed introduced antagonistic 
elements. But he strictly preserved the Socratic Method. 
“ Whilst studious youth,” says Valerius Maximus, “ were crowd¬ 
ing to Athens from every quarter in search of Plato for their 
master, that philosopher was wandering along the winding banks 
of the Nile, or the vast plains of a barbarous country, himself a 
disciple to the old men of Egypt.” 

He returned at last, and eager scholars flocked around him. 
With a mind richly stored by foreign travel and constant medi¬ 
tation, he began to emulate his beloved master, and devote him¬ 
self to teaching. Like Socrates, he taught gratuitously. The 
Academia, a public garden in the neighborhood of Athens, was 
the favorite resort of Plato, and gave its name to the school 
which he founded. This garden was planted with lofty plane- 
trees, and adorned with temples and statues; a gentle stream 
rolled through it, with 

“ A sound as of a hidden brook 
In the leafy month of June, 

Which to the sleeping woods all night 
Singeth a quiet tune.” 

It was a delicious retreat, “ for contemplation framed ” The 


* Ritter, ii. 147. 




LIFE OF PLATO. 


191 


longing thoughts of posterity have often hovered round it as the 
centre of myriad associations. Poets have sung of it. Philoso¬ 
phers have sighed for it. 

“ See there the olive grove of Academe, 

Plato’s retirement, where the Attic bird 
Thrills her thick-warbled notes the summer long.” 

In such a spot, where the sound 

“ Of bees’ industrious murmur oft invites 
To studious musing,” 

one would imagine none but the Graces could enter; and coup¬ 
ling this with the poetical beauties of Plato’s Dialogues , people 
have supposed that the lessons in the Academy were magnifi¬ 
cent outbursts of eloquence and imagery upon philosophical 
subjects. 

Nothing can be further from the truth. The lectures were 
hard exercises of the thinking faculty, and demanded great power 
of continued abstraction. Whatever graces might have adorned 
Plato’s compositions, his lectures were not literary, but dialectical 
exercises. 

Ritter thinks differently. “ His school was less a school of 
hardy deeds for all, than of polished culture for the higher 
classes, who had no other object than to enhance the enjoyment 
of their privileges and wealth.” Hoes this mean that Plato did 
not teach Stoicism ? If so, it is a truism ; if not, a falsism ; since 
what has Dialectics to do with “ hardy deeds ?” We are then 
informed that it was “ a school of polished culture for the higher 
classes a mere assertion, and a questionable one. The “ higher 
classes” principally frequented the Sophists; besides, Plato’s lec¬ 
tures were gratuitous, and every free citizen might attend them, 
on certain conditions. There were no aristocratical exclusives 
in Athens; there were no “ polished circles,” with a culture dif¬ 
fering from that of the other free citizens. When Ritter says 
that their object was “to enhance the enjoyment of their privi¬ 
leges and wealth,” we are at a loss to conceive his meaning, be¬ 
cause we do not see how they were to do this by listening to 


192 


LIFE OF PLATO. 


speculations on essences and archetypal Ideas; the more so a* 
Pdtter himself tells us Plato’s views of justice and honor were 
“ wholly impracticable in the corrupt state of the Athenian con¬ 
stitution ; and all empirical knowledge, such as is indispensable 
to a politician, was in his view contemptible.”* 

Whatever their purpose, the Lectures were severe trials to the 
capacities of students; and their purely argumentative nature 
may have originated the story respecting the inscription over the 
door of his Academy, “ Let none but Geometricians enter here 
a story which is very widely circulated, although wholly with¬ 
out good evidence.f The story is in direct contradiction to Plato’s 
views of Geometry, which he excludes from Philosophy, because 
it assumes its axioms without proof, and because it occupies a 
middle position between Opinion and Philosophy, more accurate 
than the one, but less certain than the other 

In his fortieth year Plato made his first visit to Sicily. It was 
then he became acquainted with Dionysius I., the Tyrant of 
Syracuse, Dion, his brother-in-law, and Dionysius II. With 
Dionysius I. he soon came to a rupture, owing to his political 
opinions; and he so offended the Tyrant, that his life was 
threatened. Dion, however, interceded for him ; and the Tyrant 


* Some countenance seems given to tlie ordinary notion of Plato’s Lec¬ 
tures by the tradition that even some women attended them. We confess 
this statement is to us suspicious, especially as it is also said that one woman 
disguised herself in man’s clothes. Disguise, then, w r as necessary. The 
fact, however, if correct, would only show the high cultivation of the hetcerce 
(for such the women must have been); and when we think of such women 
as Aspasia, we see no reason for supposing they could not follow the ab- 
strusest lectures. 

t Mr. Thompson says the only authorities for the inscription are Philo- 
poous, in his Commentary on Aristotle, De Anima, and a verse in the 
Chiliads of Tzetzes. See Notes to Butler's Lectures, ii. 79. 

\ I have been unable to recover a passage in the Republic where Plato 
expresses himself as in the text, but I found this, which approximates to 
it, although not the passage I had in my mind. See Repub. vi. towards 
the end, beginning, M avOavw, hpri , k.t.A. . . . and ending, Sidvotav Si Ka\ti9 
fioi SoKt?s rr)v ruv ytwf erpt/civ rt Kai r >)v tuv toiovtwv aAV oi vovv, w( 

[Ltral-v ti Soft] i Tt Kai vow rrjv Siavoiav ovaav. 



LIFE OF PLATO. 


193 


spared liis life, but commissioned Poll is, the Spartan Ambassa¬ 
dor, in whose ship Plato was to return, to sell him as a slave, 
lie was sold accordingly. Anniceris of Cyrene bought him, aud 
immediately set him free. On his return to Athens, Dionysius 

* • y 

wrote, hoping that he would not speak ill of him. Plato con¬ 
temptuously replied, that he had not “leisure to think of Diony- 
* 

S1US. 

Plato's second yisit to Syracuse was after the death of Diony- 

y j 

sius I., and with the hope of obtaining from Dionysius II. the 
establishment of a colony according to laws framed by himself. 
The colony was promised; but neyer granted. Plato incurred 
the Tyrant's suspicions of haying been concerned in Dion’s con¬ 
spiracy ; but he was allowed to return home in peace. 

lie paid a third visit; and this time solely to endeavor to rec¬ 
oncile Dionysius with his uncle Dion. Finding his efforts fruit- 
less, and perhaps dangerous, he returned. 

In the calm retirement of the Academy, Plato passed the re¬ 
mainder of his days. Lecturing and writing were his chief 
occupations. The composition of those dialogues which have 
been the admiration of posterity, was the cheering solace of his 
life, especially of his declining years. He died at the advanced 
age of eighty-three. 

Plato was intensely melancholy. That great broad brow, 
which gave him his surname, was wrinkled and sombre. Those 
brawny shoulders were bent with thought, as only those of 
thinkers are bent. A smile was the utmost that ever played 
over his lips; he never laughed. “As sad as Plato,” became a 
phrase with the comic dramatists. He had many admirers; 
scarcely any friends. 

In Plato, the thinker predominated over the man. That great 
expansive intellect had so fixed itself upon the absorbing ques¬ 
tions of philosophy, that it had scarcely any sympathy left for 
other matters. Hence his constant reprobation of Poets. Many 
suppose that the banishment of poets from his Republic was but 
an insincere extension of his logical principles, and that he really 


194 


LIFE OF PLATO. 


loved poetry too well to condemn it. Plato’s opposition to poets 
was however both deep and constant. He had a feeling not un¬ 
allied to contempt for them, because he saw in them some resem¬ 
blance to the Sophists, in their indifference to truth, and prefer¬ 
ence for the arts of expression. The only poetry Plato ever 
praises is moral poetry, which is versified philosophy. His soul 
panted for Truth. Poets, at the best, he held to be inspired 
madmen, unconscious of what fell from their lips. Let the reader 
open the Ion (it has been translated by Shelley); he will then 
perceive the cause of poets being banished from the Republic. 
Plato had a repugnance to poetry, partly because it was the dan¬ 
gerous rival of philosophy, partly because he had a contempt for 
pleasure.* It is true that he frequently quotes Homer, and, to¬ 
wards the close of the Rejmblic, some misgivings of having 
harshly treated the favorite of his youth, escape him; but he 
quickly withdraws them, and owns that Truth alone should be 
man’s object. 

There is something unpleasant in Plato’s character, which 
finds its echo in his works. He was a great, but not an amiable 
man ; his works are great, but lamentably deficient. His ethics 
are the ethics of a logician, not of a large-souled man, familiar 
with and sympathizing with the complexities of life; they are 
suited only to an impossible state of humanity. 

In bringing forward this view of Plato’s character, we shall 
doubtless shock many preconceptions. The Plato we have drawn, 
if not so romantic as that usually drawn, is the only one which 
seem to us consonant with what the ancient writers transmit. 
Let no one object to our assertion of his constant melancholy, 
on the ground of the comic talent displayed in his Dialogues. 
The comic writers are not the gayest men; even Moliere, whose 
humor is so genial, overflowing, and apparently spontaneous, was 
one of the austerest. Comedy often springs from the deepest 
melancholy, as if in sudden rebound. Moreover, in Plato’s 


* Comp, fhilebus , p. 131. 



plato’s writings. 


195 


comedy there is almost always some under-current of bitterness: 
it is Irony, not Joyousness. 

§ II. Plato’s Writings : their Character, Object, and 

Authenticity. 

Before attempting an exposition of Plato’s doctrines, it may be 
useful to say something respecting the character and authenticity 
of his Dialogues. Modern criticism, which spares nothing, has 
not left them untouched. Dialogues, the authenticity of which 
had never been questioned in antiquity, have been rejected by 
modern critics upon arbitrary grounds. 

We cannot enter here into the details; we have no space; and, 
had we space, we might be excused from combating the individ¬ 
ual positions, when we refuse to accept as valid the fundamental 
assumptions on which they repose. Internal evidence is gener¬ 
ally deceptive; but the sort of internal evidence supposed to be 
afforded by comparative inferiority in artistic execution, is never 
free from great suspicion. Some of Plato’s dialogues not being 
found equal to the exalted idea which his great works have led 
men to entertain, are forthwith declared to be spurious. But 
what writer is at all times equal to the highest of his own flights ? 
What author has produced nothing but chefs-d'oeuvre ? Are 
there not times when the most brilliant men are dull, when the 
richest style is meagre, when the compactest style is loose? The 
same subjects will not always call forth the same excellence; 
how unlikely then that various subjects should be treated with 
uniform power! The Theages could hardly equal the Thecetetus ; 
the Euthydemus must be inferior to the Gorgias. No one thinks 
of disputing Shakspeare’s claim to the Merry Wives of Windsor, 
because it is immeasurably inferior to Twelfth Night , which, in 
its turn, is inferior to Othello. 

Besides the dialogues rejected on account of inferior art, there 
are others rejected on account of immature or contradictory opin¬ 
ions. But this ground is as untenable as the former. No one 
has. yet been able to settle definitively what was Plato’s philos- 


196 


plato's writings. 


ophy; yet opinions are said to be unworthy of that unsettled 
philosophy! A preconceived notion of Plato’s having been a 
pure Socratist, has led to the rejection of whatever seemed con¬ 
tradictory to Socratic views. But there is abundant evidence tc 
show that Plato was not a mere exponent of Socratic opinions. 
Moreover, in a long life a-man’s opinions undergo many modifi¬ 
cations ; and Plato was no exception to the rule. He contra¬ 
dicts himself constantly. He does so in works the authenticity 
of which no one has questioned; and we are not to be surprised 
if we find him doing so in others. 

It is somewhat amusing to observe the confidence of modern 
criticism on this point.* An Ast, or a Socher, or a Schleier- 
macher, rejects, on the most fallacious assumptions, the authen¬ 
ticity of dialogues quoted by Aristotle as the works of his master, 
Plato. How really, to suppose that Aristotle could be mistaken 
on such a matter is a great extension of the conjectural privilege; 
but to make this supposition on no better ground than that 
of internal evidence, derived from inferiority of execution, or 
variation in opinion in the works themselves, seems truly pre¬ 
posterous. 

The ancients themselves admitted the Epinomis , the Eryxias, 
the Axiochus , anc. the Second Alcibiades, to be spurious. The 
Epistles are also now generally regarded as forgeries. With 
these exceptions, we really see no reason for rejecting any of the 
dialogues. The Theayes and the Hippias Major are certainlv as 
much in Plato’s manner as Measure for Measure is in Shak- 
speare’s; indeed, the Hippias seems to us a remarkably happy 
specimen of his dramatic talent. 

But whether all the Dialogues were the production of Plato 
or not, they equally serve the purpose of this history, since no one 


* “ According as tlie deification has directed itself to this or that aspect 
of his character, the opinions raised as to the genuineness or falsity of 
liis works have fluctuated ; so that we might safely say, the more his writ¬ 
ings have been examined, the more has the decision of their authenticity 
become complicated.”— Ritter. 



TLATO’S WRITINGS. 197 

denies them to be Platonic. We may therefore leave this ques¬ 
tion, and proceed to others. 

Do the Dialogues contain the real opinions of Plato ? This 
question has three motives. 1st. Plato himself never speaks in 
pr opr id persona, unless indeed the Athenian in the Laws be ac¬ 
cepted as representing him; a supposition in which we are in¬ 
clined to concur. 2dly. From certain passages in the Phcedrus 
and the Epistles, it would appear that Plato had a contempt for 
written opinions, as inefficient for instruction. 3dly. On the tes¬ 
timony of a phrase in Aristotle, it is supposed that Plato, like 
Pythagoras, had exoteric and esoteric opinions ; the former be¬ 
ing, of course, those set forth in his Dialogues. 

We will endeavor to answer these doubts. The first is of very 
little importance; the second of greater; the last of very great im¬ 
portance. That Plato adopts the dramatic form, and preserves 
it, is true; but this form, which quite baffles us with Shakspeare, 
baffles us with no one else. It is easy to divine the opinions of 
Aristophanes, Moliere, or Schiller. It is still more easy to divine 
the opinions of Plato, because, unlike the dramatists, he selects 
his dialogues solely with a view to the illustration of his opinions. 
Besides, it is reasonable to suppose that “ Socrates,” in the Dia¬ 
logues, represents Platonic opinions seen through the manner of 
Socrates. And, whatever the variations may be with respect to 
subordinate points, we find but one Method in all the Dialogues, 
but one conception of science; in a word, we find an unmistak¬ 
able tendency , which we pronounce to be Platonic. 

Respecting his opinion on the insufficiency of books to convey 
instruction, we may first quote what “ Socrates ” says on the sub¬ 
ject in the Phcedrus : 

“ Writing is something like painting; the creatures of the lat¬ 
ter art look very like living beings; but, if you ask them a ques¬ 
tion, they preserve a solemn silence. Written discourses do the 
same: you would fancy, by what they say, that they had some 
sense in them ; but, if you wish to learn, and therefore interro¬ 
gate them, they have only their first answer to return to all ques- 


198 


plato’s writings. 


tions. And when the discourse is once written, it passes from 
hand to hand, among all sorts of persons, those who can under¬ 
stand it, and those who cannot. It is not able to tell its story 
to those only to whom it is suitable; and, when it is unjustly 
criticised, it always needs its author to assist it, for it cannot de¬ 
fend itself. There is another sort of discourse, which is far better 
and more potent than this.—What is it ? That which is written 
scientifically in the learner’s mind. This is capable of defending 
itself, and it can speak itself, or be silent, as it sees fit.—You 
mean the real and living discourse of the person who understands 
the subject; of which discourse the written one may be called 
the picture ? Precisely.—Now, think you that a sensible hus¬ 
bandman would take seed which he valued, and wishing to pro¬ 
duce a harvest, would seriously, after the summer had begun, 
scatter it in the gardens of Adonis,* for the pleasure of seeing it 
spring up and look green in a week ? Or do you not rather 
think that he might indeed do this for sport and amusement; 
but, when his purpose was serious, would employ the art of agri¬ 
culture, and, sowing the seed at the proper time, be content to 
gather in his harvest in the eighth month ? The last, undoubt¬ 
edly.—And do you think that he who possesses the knowledge 
of what is just, and noble, and good, will deal less prudently with 
his seeds than the husbandman with his ? Certainly not.—He 
will not, then, set about sowing them with a pen and a black 
liquid; or (tc drop the metaphor) scattering these truths by means 
of discourses, which cannot defend themselves against attack, and 
which are incapable of adequately expounding the truth. No 
doubt he will, for the sake of sport, occasionally scatter some of 
the seeds in this manner, and will thus treasure up memoranda, 
for himself in case he should fall into the forgetfulness of old 
age, and for all others who follow in the same track; and he will 
be pleased when he sees the blade growing up green.”f 

Now, this remarkable passage is clearly biographical. It is the 

* “ The gardens of Adonis,” a periphrasis for mignonette-boxes. 

t Phccdrui , p. 98. 



plato’s writings. 


199 


justification of Socrates’ philosophical career. But it must not 
be too rigorously applied to Plato, whose voluminous writings 
contradict it; nor must we suppose that those writings were de¬ 
signed only for amusement, or as memoranda for his pupils. The 
main idea of this passage is one which few persons would feel 
disposed to question. We are all aware that books labor under 
very serious deficiencies; they cannot replace oral instruction 
The frequent misapprehensions of an author’s meaning would in a 
great measure be obviated if we had him by our side to interro¬ 
gate him. And oral instruction has the further advantage of not 
allowing the reader’s mind to be so passive as it is with a book : 
the teacher by his questions excites the activity of the pupil. All 
this may reasonably be conceded as Plato’s opinion, without at 
all affecting the serious purpose of his writings. Plato thought 
that conversation was more instructive than reading; but he knew 
that reading was also instructive, and he wrote: to obviate as 
much as possible the necessary inconveniences of written dis¬ 
course, he threw all his works into the form of dialogue. Hence 
the endless repetitions, divisions, and illustrations of positions al¬ 
most self-evident. The reader is fatigued by them; but, like 
Addison’s tediousness, they have a “ design ” in them : that de¬ 
sign is, by imitating conversation, to leave no position unexplain¬ 
ed. As a book cannot be interrogated, Plato makes the book 
anticipate interrogations. The very pains he takes to be tedious, 
the very minuteness of his details, is sufficient to rescue his works 
from the imputation of being mere amusements. He was too 
great an artist to have sacrificed his art to any thing but his con¬ 
victions. That he did sacrifice the general effect to his scru¬ 
pulous dialectics, no one can doubt; and we believe that he did 
so for the sake of deeply impressing on the reader’s mind the 
real force of his Method. Had the critics recognized Plato’s 
real drift, we believe they would have spared much of their cen¬ 
sure, and hesitated before pronouncing against the genuineness 
of certain dialogues. 

Connected with Plato’s expressions respecting the imperfection 


200 


plato’s writings. 


of written works, there is the passage in Aristotle, referring to 
the aypctcpcc £oyga<ra, or “ unwritten opinions,” which is supposed 
to indicate an esoteric doctrine. If Aristotle’s words do bear 
that meaning, then is the opinion consistent and valid, which 
regards the exoteric works—the Dialogues—as mere divertise- 
ments. Let us examine it. 

Aristotle says that Plato, in the Timceus , maintained space 
and matter to be the same, but that, in what are called the un¬ 
written opinions (£v roig Xsyopevoig dypucpotg Soyimtfi), he consid¬ 
ered space and place (<rov rotfov xcu <n)v %wpav) to be the same.* 
From such a passage it is surely somewhat gratuitous to conclude 
that Plato had an esoteric doctrine. The aypacpu Soy^ara proba¬ 
bly meant his lectures, or, as Ritter suggests, notes taken from the 
lectures by his scholars. At any rate, there is no ground for 
supposing them to have been esoterical opinions; the more so as 
Aristotle, his most illustrious pupil, never speaks of any such dis¬ 
tinct doctrine, but draws his statements of Plato’s views from 
published works. 

We are convinced that the Dialogues contain the real opinions 
of Plato, in as far as Plato ventured to express them. We make 
this reservation because it is pretty generally known that in the 
Socratic philosophy individual opinions were not of so much im¬ 
portance as Method. It would perhaps be better to say, therefore, 
that the Dialogues exhibit Plato’s real Method and tendencies. 
Certain it is that the Method and tendencies cau only rightly be 
appreciated after a survey of all the Dialogues. The ancients, 
we are told by Sextus Empiricus,f were divided amongst thern- 

* Phys. iv. c. 2, p. 53. Ritter, who refers to but does not cite the passage, 
gives us to understand that, in these unwritten opinions, “ much was explain¬ 
ed differently, or, at least, more definitely than in the Dialogues.” But no such 
conclusion can be drawn from Aristotle. There is no greater difference al¬ 
luded to in tho passage than may frequently be found between one dialogue 
and another. If the written (published) opinions differ, surely those unwrit¬ 
ten may be allowed also to differ from the written ? If the Republic differs 
from die Timceus , surety the “unwritten opinion” may differ from the 
Timceus. 

t Pyrrhon. Hypot. i. p. 44. 



plato’s writings. 


201 


selves as to whether Plato was a skeptic or a dogmatist. Noi 
was the dispute irrational: for, as some of the Dialogues are ex¬ 
pository and dogmatical, and others are mere exercises of the 
dialectical method—mere contests in which nothing is definitive 
ly settled—any one having studied only one class of these Dia¬ 
logues would think Plato either a skeptic or a dogmatist, accord¬ 
ing to the nature of those which he had read. Thus Cicero, an 
ardent admirer, says, “ Plato affirms nothing; but, after produc¬ 
ing many arguments, and examining a question on every side, 
leaves it undetermined.” This is true of such dialogues as the 
Thecetetus , or the Hippias Major ; but untrue of the Phcedo, 
Timceus, Laws , etc. 

This leads us to a consideration of the various attempts at 
classifying the Dialogues. That some sort of classification should 
be adopted is admitted by all; but no two persons seem to agree 
as to the precise arrangement. Any attempt at chronological ar¬ 
rangement must inevitably fail. Certain dialogues can be sat¬ 
isfactorily shown to have been written subsequently to some 
others; but any regular succession is beyond our ingenuity. We 
may be pretty sure that the Phcedrus was the earliest,* or one of 
the earliest, and the Laws the latest. We may be sure that the 
Republic was earlier than the Laws , because the latter is a ma- 
turer view of politics. But when the Republic was written baffles 
conjecture. It is usually placed with the Timceus and the Laws ; 
that is to say, with the last products of its author. But we de¬ 
mur to this on several accounts. The differences of style and of 
ideas observable in the Republic and the Laws , imply considera¬ 
ble distance between the periods of composition. Besides, a man 
not writing for his bread does not so soon resume a subject which 
he has already treated with great fulness. Plato had uttered 
his opinions in the Republic. He must have waited till new ideas 
were developed, before he could be tempted again to write; for 


* See on this point Mr. Thompson’s note to Butler's Lectures on Hist, of 
Ancient Phil. ii. p. 44. 



202 


plato’s writings. 


observe, both these dialogues are expository and dogmatical: 
they express Plato’s opinions; they are not merely dialectical ex 
ercises. 

It strikes us also that there is but one safe principle to be ap¬ 
plied to the testing of such points. Whenever two works ex¬ 
hibit variations of opinion, we should examine the nature of the 
variations and ask, which of the two opinions is the later in de¬ 
velopment—which must have been the earlier ? 

Let us take an example. In the Republic (iii. p. 123) he at¬ 
tempts to prove that no one can excel in two arts; that the 
comic poet cannot be the same as the tragic, the same actor can¬ 
not act in tragedy and comedy with success. In the Amatores 
(p. 289) he has the same idea, though there only mentioned 
briefly.* In the Symposium, however, Plato’s opinion is directly 
the reverse; for, in a celebrated passage, he makes Socrates con¬ 
vince Agathon that the tragic and comic poet are the same per¬ 
son. Now, it is not difficult to decide which is the earlier opin¬ 
ion : in the Republic it is the logical consequence of his premises; 
but in the Symposium that opinion is corrected by experience, 
for in the poets of his own day Plato found both tragedy and 
comedy united; and as Socrates is made to convince Agathon, 
we may conclude that the former opinion was not uncommon, 
and that Plato here makes a retractation. No one will deny 
that the former opinion is superficial. The distinction between 
tragedy and comedy is such that it seems to imply a distinct na¬ 
ture to attain excellence in each. But Euripides, Shakspeare, 
Racine, Cervantes, Calderon, and many others, confute this 
seeming by their dramas. 

Perhaps a still more conclusive example is that of the “ erea- 


* According to Ritter’s principle, this would prove the Republic to he later 
than the Amatores . He maintains, and with plausibility, that, when a sub¬ 
ject which has been developed in one dialogue is briefly assumed in another, 
the latter is subsequent in composition. (Ritter, vol. ii. p. 183.) Yet, on 
this principle the Phcedo is earlier than the Phcedrus , inasmuch as the doc¬ 
trine of reminiscence is developed in the former and alluded to in the latter. 



plato’s writings. 


203 


tion of Ideas,” so expressly stated in the Republic , and the “eter¬ 
nity and uncreated nature of Ideas,” as expressly stated in the 
Timceus. So radical a difference in the most important position 
of his philosophy, would at once separate the epochs at which 
the two dialogues were composed. And to this may be added 
the difference in artistic treatment between the Republic and the 
Timceus. The former, although expository, has much of the vi¬ 
vacity and dramatic vigor of the early dialogues. The Timceus 
and the Laws have scarcely a trace of art. 

Ritter has well observed that “ the excellence of the Platonic 
dialogues, as pieces of art, is twofold:—the rare imitative powers 
exhibited in the dialogue, and the acuteness with which philo¬ 
sophical matters are dialectically treated. No one will deny 
that these two qualities have only an outward connection, and 
consequently that they cannot advance equally. With the phi¬ 
losopher the latter is manifestly the more important, whereas the 
former is of secondary importance. The degree of perfection 
therefore in any dialogue, as such, affords at most a very uncer¬ 
tain means for the determination of its date; whereas the great¬ 
est weight ought to be laid on the dialectical skill.” In propor¬ 
tion as the dialectical skill became mature, it is natural to sup¬ 
pose that the dramatic imitation was less cared for. In propor¬ 
tion as Plato became settled in his convictions he became anxious 
solely for their clear exposition. He began life with a love of 
poetry; but this he soon abandoned for philosophy. 

The whole inquiry may seem idle; but until something like a 
positive arrangement of his works can be made, there will be no 
end to the misconceptions of his opinions ; for it is preposterous 
to cite passages in support of a doctrine, before having ascer¬ 
tained the date of the work whence the passages are drawn. 
Yet this is the way critics and historians draw up an imaginary 
outline of Plato’s philosophy, and squabble amongst each other 
as to who is right. When it is said that Plato held such or such 
an opinion, it should be distinctly understood at what period of 
his career he held it; because, in so long a career, and with so 


204 plato’s writings. 

many changes of opinion, it is necessary to be precise. For our 
own part we can scarcely name a single opinion held by him 
throughout his works. Even the Socratic idea of Virtue being 
identical with Knowledge, consequently of Vice being Ignorance, 
and therefore involuntary—even this idea he learned in his old- 
age to repudiate, as we see in the Laws (book v. p. 385), where 
he calls incontinence , no less than ignorance (p Si 1 d/xaSiav <5V 
dxpurstav), the causes of vice. In the same sense (book iv. p. 
138), after speaking of anger and pleasure as causes of error, he 
says, “ There is a third cause of our faults, and that is ignorance” 
(rpirov ayvoiav <rwv a/V/av). So that here he places 

ignorance only as a third cause; and by so doing destroys the 
whole Socratic argument respecting the identity of Virtue and 
knowledge.* 

This being the case, it will readily be acknowledged, that to 
make up a doctrine from passages culled here and there, must 
inevitably lead into error. A consistent doctrine cannot be made 
out. Indeed it is questionable whether Plato ever elaborated 
one. Like Socrates, he occupied himself with Method rather 
than with results; like Socrates, he had doubts respecting the 
certainty of knowledge on the higher subjects of thought; like 
Socrates, he sought Truth, without professing to have found her. 

As a chronological arrangement has been impossible, a philo¬ 
sophical arrangement has frequently been attempted. The most 
celebrated is that of Schleiermacher, who divides the Dialogues 
into three classes:—“ 1st. Elementary dialogues , or those which 
contain the germs of all that follows,—of logic as the instrument 
of philosophy, and of ideas as its proper object; consequently, 
of the possibility of the conditions of knowledge: these are the 
Phcedrus, Lysis , Protagoras , Laches , Charmides , Euthyphro , 

* The Meno is a further confirmation. In it virtue is shown to be unsus • 
eeptible of being tad£ht; ergo, it is not Knowledge. This would make the 
Meno one of the latest works. Neither of these contradictions has, to our 
knowledge, been noticed before. It was our intention to insert a Chapter on 
the self-contradictions of Plato, but the space such a Chapter must have oc¬ 
cupied, Avould have been utterly beyond our limits. 



PLATO'S WRITINGS. 


205 


and Parmenides; to which he subjoins, as an appendix, the 
Apologia, Crito, Ion, Hippias Minor, Hipparchus, Minos , and 
Alcibiades II. 2d. Progressive dialogues, which treat of the 
distinction between philosophical and common knowledge in 
their united application to the two proposed and real sciences, 
Ethics and Physics: these are the Gorgias, Thecetetus, Meno , 
Euthydemus, Cratylus, Sopkistes, Politicus, Symposium, Pkccdo, 
and Philebus ; with an appendix containing the Theages, Ama- 
tores, Alcibiades I, Menexemus, Hippias Major, and Clitopkon. 
3d. Constructive dialogues, in which the practical is completely 
united with the speculative; these are the Republic, Timceus, 
Critias, w r ith an appendix containing the Laws and the Epis¬ 
tles I* There is considerable ingenuity in this; and it has been 
adopted by Bekker in his edition. It has however been much 
criticised, as every such attempt must necessarily be. Van 
Heusde, in his charming work,f has suggested another. He pro¬ 
poses three classes: 1, those wherein the subject-matter relates 
to the Beautiful; 2, those wherein it relates to the True; 3, 
those wherein it relates to the Practical. Of the first are those 
concerning Love, Beauty, and the Soul. Of the second, those 
concerning Dialectics, Ideas, Method; in which Truth and the 
means of attaining it are sought. Of the third, those concerning 
justice; i. e. morals and politics. These three classes represent 
the three phases of the philosophical mind : the desire for Truth, 
the appreciation of Truth, and the realization of it, in an applica¬ 
tion to human life. 

There is one great objection to this classification, namely, the- 
impossibility of properly arranging the Dialogues under the sep¬ 
arate heads. The Phcedrus, which Van Heusde believes devoted 
to Love and Beauty, Schleiermacher has clearly shown to be de¬ 
voted to Dialectics. So of the rest: Plato mixes up in one dia¬ 
logue very opposite subjects. Van Heusde is also under the er 


* Penny Cyclopcedia, Art. Plato, p. 236. 
f Initia Philosophise Platonicce, i. p. 72. 

1G 



‘206 


plato’s writings. 

roneous conviction of Plato’s having been only a Socratist till he 
went to Mcgara, where he became imbued with the Eleatic doc¬ 
trines ; and that it was in his maturer age that he became ac 
quainted with the Pythagorean philosophy. 

It may be presumptuous to suggest a new classification, yet it 
is difficult to resist the temptation. It seems to us that the Dia¬ 
logues may reasonably be divided into the two classes named by 
Sextus Empiricus:—Dogmatic and Agonistic, or Expository and 
Polemical. The advantage of this division is its clearness and 
practicability. There will always be something arbitrary in the 
endeavor to classify the dialogues according to their subject- 
matter, because they are almost all occupied with more than one 
subject. Thus the Republic would certainly be classed under 
the head of Ethics; yet it contains very important discussions 
on the nature of human knowledge, and on the theory of Ideas; 
and these discussions ought properly to be classed under the 
head of Metaphysics. Again, the Phcedrus is more than half 
occupied with discourses about Love; but the real subject of the 
work is Dialectics. 

In the division we propose, such inconveniences are avoided. 
It is easy to see which dialogues are polemical and which are 
expository. The Hippias Major and the Timceus may stand as 
representatives of each class. In the former no attempt is made 
to settle the question raised. Socrates contents himself with re¬ 
futing every position of his antagonist. In the Timceus there is 
no polemic ol' any sort: all is calmly expository. 

A further subdivision might also be made of the agonistic 
dialogues, into such as are purely polemical and such as by 
means of polemics enforce ideas. Sometimes Plato only de¬ 
stroys ; at other times the destruction is a clearance of the 
ground, which opens to us a vista of the truth: of this kind is 
the Thecetetus. 

We are however firmly persuaded that one distinct purpose 
runs through all the Dialogues, whatever may be their varieties 
of form or of .opinion; one great and fruitful purpose which may 


PLATO'S METHOD. 


207 

lightly be called the philosophy of Plato, and which we will now 
attempt to exhibit. 


§ III. Plato’s Method. 

P>y some, Plato is regarded as the mere literary exponent of 
the Socratic doctrines; by others, as the real founder of a new 
epoch and of a new philosophy. Both of these views appear to 
us questionable; but on the subject of Plato, errors are so numer¬ 
ous, and we had almost said so inevitable, that no one who 
rightly appreciates the difficulty of ascertaining the truth, will 
be disposed to dogmatize. Although we claim the right of en¬ 
forcing our opinions—a right purchased with no contemptible 
amount of labor in the inquiry—we would be distinctly under¬ 
stood to place no very great confidence in their validity. After 
this preface, we trust, we may speak openly without incurring 
the charge oF dogmatism, when simply recording the results of 
study.* . 

Plato we hold to be neither a simple Socratist, nor the creator 
of a new philosophy. He was the inheritor of all the wisdom of 
his age. He fully seized the importance of the Socratic Method ; 
he adopted it, enlarged it. But he also saw the importance of 
those ideas which his predecessors had so laboriously excogitated; 
he adopted and enlarged the leading features of the Pythagore¬ 
ans and the Eleatics, of Anaxagoras and Heraclitus. With vast 
learning and a puissant Method, he created an influence which is 
not yet totally extinct. But his philosophy was critical, not dog¬ 
matical. He enlarged, ameliorated the views of others, intro¬ 
ducing little that was new into the philosophy of his age. He 
was the culminating point of Greek philosophy. In his works 

* It has been a principle with us throughout, to abstain from all un¬ 
necessary references. The absence of such references renders it the more 
needful for us to state that, previous to writing this Section, we renewed 
our acquaintance with Plato by carefully reading all Ms works , with the ex¬ 
ception of two of the minor ones. (Since the first edition of this work a 
complete translation of Plato has appeared, so that the English reader has 
now the means of testing the validity of our conclusions.) 



208 


Plato’s method. 


all the various and conflicting tendencies of preceding eras were 
collected under one Method. 

That Method was doubtless the Method of Socrates, with some 
modifications, or rather with some enlargement. Schleiermacher, 
in a profound and luminous essay on the Worth of Socrates as a. 
Philosopher* looks upon the service rendered to Philosophy by 
Socrates as consisting less in the truths arrived at, than in the 
mode in which truth should be sought. Alluding to this view, 
John Mill has said, “This appears to us to be, with some modi¬ 
fications, applicable likewise to Plato. No doubt the disciple 
pushed his mere inquiries and speculations over a more extended 
surface, and to a much greater depth below the surface, than 
there is any reason to believe the master did. But, though he 
continually starts most original and valuable ideas, it is seldom 
that these, when they relate to the results of inquiry, are stated 
with an air of conviction, as if they amounted to fixed opinions. 
But, when the topic under consideration is the proper mode of 
philosophizing—either the moral spirit in which truth should be 
sought, or the intellectual processes and methods by which it is 
to be attained; or when the subject-matter is not any particular 
scientific principle, but knowledge in the abstract, the differences 
between knowledge and ignorance, and between knowledge and 
mere opinion— then the views inculcated are definite and consist¬ 
ent, are always the same, and are put forth with the appearance 
of earnest and matured belief. Even in treating of other subjects, 
and even when the opinions advanced have the least semblance 
of being seriously entertained, the discourse itself has generally a 
very strong tendency to illustrate the conception, which does 
seem to be really entertained, of the nature of some part or other 
of the process of philosophizing. The inference we would draw 
is, that on the science of the Investigation of Science, the theory 
of the pursuit of truth, Plato had not only satisfied himself that 


* Translated by Bishop Thirlwall, in the Philological Museum , and re¬ 
printed in the English version of Dr. Wigger’s Life of Socrates . 



plato’s method. 209 

his predecessors were in error, and how , but had also adopted 
definite views of his own; while on all or most other subjects he 
contented himself with confuting the absurdities of others, point¬ 
ing out the proper course for inquiry, and the spirit in which it 
should be conducted, and throwing out a variety of ideas of his 
own, of the value of which he was not quite certain, and which 
he left to the appreciation of any subsequent inquirer competent 
to sit in judgment upon them.” 

We have here to examine what that Method was which Plato 
constantly pursued. Socrates, as we have shown, relied upon 
the Inductive or Analogical Reasoning, and on Definitions, as 
the two principles of investigation. The incompleteness of these 
principles we have already pointed out; and Plato himself found 
it necessary to enlarge them. 

Definitions form the basis of all Philosophy. To know a thing 
you must also know what it is not. In ascertaining the real De¬ 
finition, Socrates employed his accoucheur's art [xatsvnx »;), 

and proceeded inductively. Plato also used these arts; but he 
added to them the more efficient processes of Analysis and Syn¬ 
thesis, of generalization and classification.* 

Analysis, which was first insisted on by Plato as a philosophic 
process, is the decomposition of the whole into its separate parts; 
whereby, after examining those parts attentively, the idea of the 
whole is correctly ascertained. To use Platonic language, Anal¬ 
ysis is seeing the One in the Many. Thus, if the subject be 
Virtue, the general term Virtue must first be decomposed into 
all its parts, i. e. into all the Virtues; and from a thorough 
examination of the Virtues a clear idea of Virtue may be at¬ 
tained.f 

Definitions were to Plato what general or abstract ideas were 
to later metaphysicians. The individual thing was held to be 
transitory and phenomenal, the abstract idea was eternal. Only 

* Consult Van Ileusde, Initio, Philo soph. Platonics, ii. parts ii. 97, 98. 
t A good example of his mode of conducting an inquiry may be seen 
in the Gorgias. 



210 


plato’s method. 


concerning the latter could philosophy occupy itself. But Soc 
rates, although insisting on proper Definitions, had no conception 
of the classification of those Definitions which must constitute 
philosophy. Plato, therefore, by the introduction of this process, 
shifted philosophy from the ground of inquiries into man and 
society to that of Dialectics. What was Dialectics ? It was the 
art of discoursing , i. e. the art of thinking, i. e. logic. Plato uses 
the word Dialectics, because with him Thinking was a silent dis¬ 
course of the soul, and differed from speech only in being silent. 
In this conception of Philosophy as Dialectics, Plato absorbed 
the conversational method of Socrates, but gave it a new direc¬ 
tion. 

How erroneous the notion is which supposes that Plato’s merit 
was exclusively literary, may be gathered from the above brief 
outline of his Method. He was pre-eminently a severe Dialecti¬ 
cian. This is his leading peculiarity; but he has clothed his 
method in such attractive forms that the means have been mis¬ 
taken for the end. His great dogma, like that of his master, 
Socrates, was the necessity of an untiring investigation into gen¬ 
eral terms (or abstract ideas). He did not look on life with the 
temporary interest of a passing inhabitant of the world. He 
looked on it as an immortal soul longing to be released from its 
earthly prison, and striving to catch by anticipation some faint 
glimpses of that region of eternal Truth where it would some day 
rest. The fleeting phenomena of this world he knew were noth¬ 
ing more ; but he was too wise to overlook them. Fleeting and 
imperfect as they were, they were the indications of that eternal 
Truth for which he longed, footmarks on the perilous journey, 
and guides unto the wished-for goal. Long before him wise and 
meditative men perceived that sense-knowledge would only be 
knowledge of phenomena; that every thing men call Existence 
was but a perpetual flux—a something which, always becoming, 
never was; that the reports which our senses made of these 
things partook of the same fleeting and uncertain character. 
He could not, therefore, put his trust in them; he could not 


plato’s method. 


211 


believe that Time was any thing more than the wavering image 
of Eternity. 

But he was not a Skeptic. These transitory phenomena 
were not true existences; but they were images of true ex¬ 
istences. Interrogate them; classify them ; discover what qual¬ 
ities they have in common; discover that which is invariable, 
necessary, amidst all that is variable, contingent; discover The 
One in The Many, and you have penetrated the secret of Ex¬ 
istence.* 

Now in reducing this Platonic language to a modern formula, 
what is the thought? The thought is simply this : Things exist 
as classes and as individuals. These classes are but species of 
higher classes; e. g. men are individuals of the class Man, and 
Man is a species of the class Animal. But Philosophy, which is 
deductive, has nothing to do with individuals; it is occupied 
solely with classes. General Terms, or abstract ideas, are there¬ 
fore the materials with which Philosophy works. 

These General Terms, Plato said, stood for the only real Exist¬ 
ences, the only objects of Philosophy. And as far as expression 
is concerned, he would seem to be in perfect accordance with 
modern thinkers. But we must be cautious how we mistake 
these coincidences of expression for coincidences of doctrine. 
Plato’s philosophy w r as an inarticulate utterance, curious to the 
historian, but valueless as a solution of the problem. 

We are here led to the origin of the world-famous dispute of 
Realism and Nominalism, which may be summed up in a sen¬ 
tence. The Realists maintain, that every General Term (or Ab¬ 
stract idea), such as Man, Virtue, etc., has a real and independ¬ 
ent existence, quite irrespective of any concrete individual deter¬ 
mination, such as Smith, Benevolence, etc. The Nominalists, on 
the contrary, maintain, that all General Terms are but the crea- 

* To refer the reader to particular passages wherein this doctrine is ex¬ 
pressed, or implied, would be endless: it runs through all his works, and 
;s the only constant doctrine to be found there. Perhaps the easiest passage 
where it may be read is Phileius, p. 233-6. 



212 


plato’s ideal theory. 


tions of the mind, designating no distinct entities, being mere!) 
used as marks of aggregate conceptions. 

In Realism, Plato separated himself from his master Socrates. 
On this point we have the indubitable, but hitherto little noticed, 
testimony of Aristotle, who, after speaking of the Socratic 
Method of Induction and Definition, says:—“ But Socrates gave 
neither to General Terms nor to Definitions a distinct existence.”* 
This is plain enough. Aristotle, in continuation, obviously speaks 
of Plato:—“ Those who succeeded him gave to these General 
Terms a separate existence, and called them Ideas.” 

Thus we are introduced to Plato’s famous Ideal theory ; which, 
although confused and contradictory enough in detail, as is tbe 
case with all his special opinions, is clear enough in its general 
tendency. 

§ IV. Plato’s Ideal Theory. 

The word Idea has undergone more changes than almost any 
word in philosophy; and nothing can well be more opposed to 
the modern sense of the word than the sense affixed to it by 
Plato. If we were to say, that Ideas were tantamount to the 
Substantial Forms of the schoolmen, we should run the risk of 
endeavoring to enlighten an obscurity by an obscurity no less 
opaque. If we were to say, that the Ideas were tantamount to 
Universals , the same objection might be raised. If we were to 
say, that the Ideas were General Terms or Abstract Ideas , we 
should mislead every Nominalist into the belief that Plato was 
an “ Idealist;” otherwise the last explanation would be pertinent. 

It will be better, however, to describe first, and to define after¬ 
wards. Plato, according to Aristotle, gave to General Terms a 
distinct existence, and called them Ideas. He became a Realist; 


-i/i'L XUl. 4, AXX o pcv Ta Ka96\ov ov ^copiara iirotci , ov5i tovs 

i pur ports. The wording of this may appear strange. Many have supposed 
universals to exist separately ; but how a separate existence could be given 
to Definitions may puzzle the stoutest Realist. We believe the difficulty 
vanishes, if we remember that the Platonic Definitions and Universals were 
the same things; Aristotle’s phrase is, however, ambiguous. 



plato’s ideal theory. 213 

and asserted, that there was the Abstract Alan no less than the 
Concrete Men ; the latter were Men only in as far as they par¬ 
ticipated in the Ideal Man. No one will dispute that we have a 
conception of a genus—that we do conceive and reason about 
Man quite independently of Smith or Brown, Peter or Paul. If 
we have such a conception, whence did we derive it? Our ex¬ 
perience has only been of the Smiths and Browns, the Peters 
and Pauls ; we have only known men. Our senses tell us noth¬ 
ing of Man. Individual objects only give individual knowledge. 
A number of stones placed before us will afford us no knowledge, 
will not enable us to say, These are stones; unless we have pre¬ 
viously learned what is the nature of Stone. So, also, we must 
know the nature of Man, before we can know that Jones and 
Brown are Men. We do know Man, and we know Men; but 
our knowledge of the former is distinct from that of the latter, 
and must have a distinct source; so, at least, thought the Real¬ 
ists. What is that source ? Reflection, not sense. 

The Realists finding The One in The Many,—in other words, 
finding certain characteristics common to all Men, and not only 
common to them but necessary to their being Men,—abstracted 
these general characteristics from the particular accidents of 
individual men, and out of these characteristics made what they 
called Universals (what we call genera). These Universals ex¬ 
isted per se. They are not only conceptions of the mind; they 
are entities; and our perceptions of them are formed in the 
same manner as our perceptions of other things. 

Greek Philosophy, no less than Greek Art, was eminently Ob¬ 
jective. Now what is the objective tendency, but the tendency 
to transform our conceptions into perceptions —to project our 
ideas out of us, and then to look at them as images, or as enti¬ 
ties ? Let then the conception of genera be rendered objective, 
and the Realist doctrine is explained. Our conceptions were held 
by Realism to be perceptions of existing Things; these Plato 
called Ideas , which he maintained to be the only real existences; 
they were the noumena of which all individual things were the 


214 


Plato’s ideal theory. 


j phenomena. If then we define the Platonic “ Idea,” to be a 
“ Noumenon,” or “ Substantial Form,” we shall not be far wrong : 
and most of the disputes respecting the real meaning of the term 
will be set aside; for example, Ritter's wavering account of the 
word—in which he is at a loss to say whether Idea means the 
universal , or whether it does not also mean the individual. 
That Plato usually designates a General Term by the word Idea, 
there can be no doubt; there can be no doubt also that he some¬ 
times designates the essence of some individual thing an Idea, as 
in the Republic, where he speaks of the Idea of a Table from 
which all other Tables were formed. There is no contradiction 
in this:—a general form is as necessary for Tables as for Men : 
this Idea, therefore, equally partakes of generality, even where 
exemplified by particular things. 

We must now endeavor to indicate the position occupied by 
Ideas in the Platonic cosmology. To Socrates Plato was in¬ 
debted for his Method; yet not wholly indebted, seeing that he 
enlarged the conception transmitted to him. To Pythagoras he 
was indebted for his theory of Ideas; yet not wholly indebted, 
seeing that he modified it and rendered it more plausible. What 
he did for Method we have seen : let us now see how he trans¬ 
formed the Pythagorean doctrine. 

Aristotle, in a memorable passage, says:—“ Plato followed 
Socrates respecting definitions, but, accustomed as he was to in¬ 
quiries into universals (Sux to <7rspi tojv xaSoXou), he sup¬ 

posed that definitions should be those of intelligibles (i. e. nou- 
mena), rather than of sensibles (i. e. phenomena) : for it is impos¬ 
sible to give a general^ definition to sensible objects , which are 
always changing. Those Intelligible Essences he called Ideas ; 
adding that sensible objects were different from Ideas, and re¬ 
ceived from them their names; for it is in consequence of their 
participation (xura /x s$s£»v) in Ideas, that all objects of the same 
genus receive the same name as the Ideas. He introduced the 
word participation. The Pythagoreans say, that ‘Things 


plato’s ideal theory. 


215 


the copies of Numbers.’ Plato says, ‘ the participation f he only 
changes the name.”* 

With due submission, we venture to question the assertion of 

Aristotle in the last sentence. Plato did more than chano-e a 

© 

name. The conception alone of Ideas, as generical types, is a 
great advance on the conception of Numbers. But Plato did 
not stop here. He ventured on an explanation of the nature and 
the degree of that participation of sensible objects in Ideas. 
And Aristotle himself, in another place, points out a fundamen¬ 
tal distinction. “Plato thought that sensible Things no less 
than their causes were Numbers; but the causes are Intelligibles 
( i . e. Ideas), and other things Sensibles.”\ Surely this is some¬ 
thing more than the invention of a name ! It gives a new char¬ 
acter to the theory; it renders it at once more clear, and more 
applicable. 

The greatest difficulty felt in the Ideal theory is that of parti¬ 
cipation. How, and in how far, does this participation take 
place ? A question which Plato did not, and could not, solve. 
All that he could answer was, that human knowledge is necessa¬ 
rily imperfect, that sensation troubles the intellectual eye, and 
only when the soul is free from the hindrances of the body shall 
we be able to discern things in all the ineffable splendor of truth. 
But, although our knowledge is imperfect, it is not false. Pea- 
son enables us to catch some glimpses of the truth, and we must 
endeavor to gain more. Whatever is the object of the soul’s 
thought, purely as such, is real and true. The problem is to 
separate these glimpses of the truth from the prejudices and 
errors of mere opinion. 

In this doctrine, opinion is concerned only with Appearances 
(phenomena) ; philosophy, with Existence. Our sensation, judg¬ 
ments, opinions, have only reference to rot yiyvogsva ; our philo¬ 
sophic conceptions have reference to rd ovra. The whole matter 


* Metaph. i. 6. f lb. i. 7, ’AAXti row? /aiv vorjrovs atriovs , rotirov; <5f ataOr/rovs. 



216 


plato’s psychology. 

is comprised in Plato’s answer to Diogenes, who thought he do 
molished the theory of Ideas by exclaiming, “I see indeed a 
table; but I see no Idea of a table.” Plato replied, “ Because 
you see with your eyes, and not with your reason.” Hence at 
the close of the otli Book of his Republic , he says that those 
only are to be called Philosophers who devote themselves to the 
contemplation of <ro ov, i. e. Existence. 

The phenomena which constitute what we perceive of the 
world (i. e. the world of sense) are but the resemblances of matter 
to Ideas. In other words, Ideas are the Forms of which ma¬ 
terial Things are copies; the noumena , of which all that we 
perceive are the Appearances (phenomena). But we must not 
suppose these copies to be exact; they do not at all participate 
in the nature of their models; they do not even represent them, 
otherwise than in a superficial manner. Or perhaps it would be 
more correct to say, that Ideas do not resemble Things; the man 
does not resemble his portrait, although the portrait may be a 
tolerable resemblance of him; a resemblance of his aspect, not of 
his nature. If, then, the Ideas as they exist realized in Nature, 
do not accurately resemble the Ideas as they exist per se — i. e. 
if the phenomena are not exact copies of the noumena—how are 
we ever to attain a knowledge of Ideas and of Truth ? This 
question plunges us into the midst of his psychology, which we 
must first explain before the whole conception of the Ideal theo¬ 
ry can be made consistent. 

§ V. Plato’s Psychology. 

After the dreary dialectics of the two preceding Sections, it is 
some refreshment to be able to open this Section with a myth, 
and that perhaps the most fascinating of all Plato’s myths. 

In the Pliwdrus Socrates very justly declares his inability tc 
explain the real nature of the soul. But though he cannot ex¬ 
hibit it, he can show what it resembles. Unable to give a de¬ 
monstration, he can paint a picture; and that picture he paints 
as follows: 


Plato’s psychology. 


217 


“ We may compare it to a chariot, with a pair of winged horses 
and a driver. In the souls of the Gods, the horses and the driv¬ 
ers are entirely good: in other souls only partially so, one of the 
horses excellent, the other vicious. The business, therefore, of the 
driver is extremely difficult and troublesome. 

“ Let us now attempt to show how some living beings came 
to be spoken of as mortal, and others as immortal. All souls are 
employed in taking care of the things which are inanimate; and 
travel about the whole of heaven in various forms. Now, when the 
soul is perfect, and has wings, it is carried aloft, and helps to ad¬ 
minister the entire universe; but the soul which loses its wings, 
drops down till it catches hold of something solid, in which it 
takes up its residence; and, having a dwelling of clay, which 
seems to be self-moving on account of the soul which is in it, the 
two together are called an animal, and mortal. The phrase ‘im¬ 
mortal animal’ arises not from any correct understanding, but 
from a fiction : never having seen, nor being able to comprehend, 
a deity, men conceived an immortal being, having a body as well 
as a soul, united together for all eternity. Let these things, 
then, be as it pleases God ; but let us next state from what cause 
a soul becomes unfledged. 

“ It is the nature of wings to lift up heavy bodies towards the 
habitation of the Gods; and, of all things which belong to the 
body, wings are that which most partakes of the divine. The 
divine includes the beautiful, the wise, the good, and every thing 
of that nature. By these the wings of the soul are nourished 
and increased; by the contraries of these, they are destroyed. 

“Jupiter, and the other Gods, divided into certain bands, 
travel about in their winged chariots, ordering and attending to 
all things, each according to his appointed function ; and all who 
will, and who can, follow them. When they go to take their 
repasts, they journey towards the summit of the vault of heaven. 
The chariots of the Gods, being in exact equilibrium, and there¬ 
fore easily guided, perform this journey easily, but all others with 
difficulty; for one of the two horses, being of inferior nature, 


218 


PLATO’S PSYCHOLOGY. 


when lie has not been exceedingly well trained by the driver, 
weighs down the vehicle, and impels it towards the earth. 

“The souls which are called immortal (viz. the Gods), when 
they reach the summit, go through, and, standing upon the con¬ 
vex outside of heaven, are carried round and round by its revo¬ 
lution, and see the things which lie bevond the heavens. No 
poet has ever celebrated these supercelestial things, nor ever will 
celebrate them, as they deserve. This region is the seat of Ex¬ 
istence itself: Real Existence, colorless, figureless, and intangible 
Existence, which is visible only to Mind, the charioteer of the 
soul, and which forms the subject of Real Knowledge. The 
minds of the Gods, which are fed by pure knowdedge, and all 
other thoroughly w r ell-ordered minds, contemplate for a time this 
universe of ‘Being’ per se , and are delighted and nourished by 
the contemplation, until the revolution of the heavens brings them 
back again to the same point. In this circumvolution, they con¬ 
template Justice itself, Temperance itself, and Knowledge; not 
that knowledge which has a generation or a beginning, not that 
which exists in a subject which is any of what we term beings, 
but that Knowledge which exists in Being in general; in that 
which really Is. After thus contemplating all real existences, 
and being nourished thereby, these souls again siuk into the in¬ 
terior of the heavens, and repose. 

“ Such is the life of the Gods. Of other souls, those which best 
follow the Gods, and most resemble them, barely succeed in lifting 
the head of the charioteer into the parts beyond the heavens, 
and, being carried round by the circumvolution, are enabled 
with difficulty to contemplate this universe of Self-Existence. 
Others, being encumbered by the horses, sometimes rising and 
sometimes sinking, are enabled to see some Existences only. The 
remainder only struggle to elevate themselves, and, by the un¬ 
skilfulness of their drivers, coming continually into collision, are 
lamed, or break their wings, and, after much labor, go away with¬ 
out accomplishing their purpose, and return to feed upon mere 
opinion. 


219 


PLATO 8 PSYCHOLOGY. 

“ The motive of this great anxiety to view the supercelestial 
plain of Truth is that the proper food of the soul is derived from 
thence, and, in particular, the wings, by which the soul is made 
light and carried aloft, are nourished upon it. Now it is an in¬ 
violable law that any soul which, placing itself in the train of 
the Gods, and journeying along with them, obtains a sight of any 
of these self-existent Realities, remains exempt from all harm 
until the next circumvolution, and, if it can contrive to effect 
this every time, is forever safe and uninjured. But if, being un¬ 
able to elevate itself to the necessary height, it altogether fails of 
seeing these realities, and, being weighed down by vice and ob¬ 
livion, loses its wings and falls to the earth, it enters into and ani¬ 
mates some Body. It never enters, at the first generation, into 
the body of a brute animal; but that which lias seen most en¬ 
ters into the body of a person who will become a lover of wis¬ 
dom, or a lover of beauty, or a person addicted to music, or to 
love; the next in rank, into that of a monarch who reigns ac¬ 
cording to law, or a warrior, or a man of talents for command ; 
the third, into a person qualified to administer the State, and 
manage his family affairs, or carry on a gainful occupation; 
the fourth into a person fond of hard labor and bodily exer¬ 
cises, or skilled in the prevention and curing of bodily diseases; 
the fifth, into a prophet, or a teacher of religious ceremonies; 
the sixth, into a poet, or a person addicted to any other of the 
imitative arts; the seventh, into a husbandman or an artificer; 
the eighth, into a sophist, or a courtier of the people; the ninth, 
into a despot and usurper. And, in all these different fortunes, 
they who conduct themselves justly will obtain next time a more 
eligible lot; they who conduct themselves unjustly a worse. The 
soul never returns to its pristine state in less than ten thousand 
years, for its wings do not grow in a shorter time; except only 
the soul of one who philosophizes with sincerity or who loves 
with philosophy. Such souls, after three periods of one thousand 
years, if they choose thrice in succession this kind of life, recover 
their wings in the three thousandth year, and depart. The other 


220 


PLATOS PSYCHOLOGY. 


souls, at the termination of their first life, are judged, and, hav 
ing received their sentence, are either sent for punishment into 
the places of execution under the earth, or are elevated to a place 
in heaven, in which they are rewarded according to the life which 
they led while here. In either case they are called back on the 
thousandth year, to choose or draw lots for a new life. Then a 
human soul often passes into the body of a beast, and that of a 
beast, if it has ever been human, passes again into the body of a 
man; for a soul which has never seen the Truth at all cannot en¬ 
ter into the human form, it being necessary that man should be 
able to apprehend many things according to kinds , which kinds 
are composed of many perceptions combined by reason into one. 
Now, this mode of apprehending is neither more nor less than 
the recollecting of those things which the soul formerly saw when 
it journeyed along with the Gods, and, disregarding what we 
now call beings, applied itself to the apprehension of Real Be¬ 
ing. It is for this reason that the soul of the philosopher is re¬ 
fledged in a shorter period than others; for, it constantly, to the 
best of its power, occupies itself in trying to recollect those things 
which the Gods contemplated, and by the contemplation of 
which they are Gods; by which means being lifted out of, and 
above, human cares and interests, he is, by the vulgar, considered 
as mad, while in reality he is inspired.” 

This is unquestionably the poetry of philosophy, and it is from 
such passages that the popular opinion respecting Plato has been 
formed; but they represent only a small portion of the real 

thinker. Towards the close the reader will have remarked that 

\ 

the famous doctrine of reminiscence is implied. This doctrine 
may be seen fully developed in the Phcedo ; it seems to have been 
a fundamental one. The difficulties of conceiving the possibility 
of any knowledge other than the sense-knowledge, which the So¬ 
phists had successfully proved to lead to skepticism, must early 
have troubled Plato’s mind. If we know nothing but what our 
senses teach us, then is all knowledge trivial. Those who admit 
the imperfection of the senses and fall back upon Reason, beg 


plato’s psychology. 


221 


the question. How do we know that Reason is correct? How 
can we be assured that Reason is not subject to some such inevi¬ 
table imperfection as that to which sense is subject? 

Here the ever-recurring problem of human knowledge pre¬ 
sents itself. Plato was taught by Socrates that beyond the world 
of Sense, there was the world of eternal Truth; that men who 
differed greatly respecting individual things did not differ respect 
ing universals; that there was a common fund of Truth, from 
which all human souls drew their share. Agreeing with his 
master that there were certain principles about which there 
could be no dispute, he wished to know how he came by those 
principles. 

All who have examined the nature of our knowledge, are aware 
that it is partly made up of direct impressions received by the 
senses, and partly of ideas which never were, at least in their 
ideal state, perceived by the senses. It is this latter part which 
has agitated the schools. On the one side, men have declared it 
to be wholly independent of the senses—to be the pure action of 
the soul. In its simplest form, this doctrine may be called the 
doctrine of Innate Ideas. On the other side, men have as vigor¬ 
ously argued that, although all our ideas were not absolutely 
derived from the senses in a direct manner, yet they were all so 
derived in an indirect manner: thus, we have never seen a mer¬ 
maid ; but we have seen both a fish and a woman, and to com¬ 
bine these two impressions is all that the mind does in conceiving 
a mermaid. This doctrine is pushed to its limits in the eigh¬ 
teenth-century philosophy, which says, Penser , e'est sentir: thought 
is a transformed sensation. 

Plato, in adopting the former view, rendered it more cogent 
than most of his successors; for is it not somewhat gratuitous to 
say, we are born with such and such ideas ? It is different from 
saying we are born with certain faculties: that would be admis¬ 
sible. But, to be driven into a corner, and on being asked, 
whence came those ideas? to answer, they are innate,—is a pure 
petitio principii . What proof have you that they are im 

17 


222 


plato’s psychology. 


uate ? Merely the proof that you cannot otherwise account for 
them ? 

Plato was more consistent. He said The Soul is and ever was 
immortal. In its anterior states of existence it had accurate con¬ 
ceptions of the eternal Truth. It was face to face with Existence. 
Now, having descended upon earth, having passed into a body, 
and, being subject to the hindrances of that bodily imprisonment, 
it is no longer face to face with Existence : it can see Existence 
only through the ever-changing flux of material phenomena. 
The world is only becoming , never is. The Soul would apprehend 
only the becoming , had it not some recollection of its anterior 
state—had it not in some sort the power of tracing the unvary¬ 
ing Idea under the varying phenomena. When, for example, we 
see a stone, all that our senses convey is the appearance of that 
stone: but, as the stone is large or small, the soul apprehends 
the Idea of Greatness; and this apprehension is a reminiscence 
of the world of Ideas, awakened by the sensation. So when we 
see or hear of a benevolent action, besides the fact, our Soul ap¬ 
prehends the Idea of Goodness. And all our recollection of Ideas 
is performed in the same way. It is as if in our youth we had 
listened to some mighty orator whose printed speech we are read¬ 
ing in old age. That printed page, how poor and faint a copy 
of that thrilling eloquence! how we miss the speaker’s piercing*, 
vibrating tones, his flashing eye, his flashing face! And yet that 
printed page in some dim way recalls those tones, recalls that 
face, and stirs us somewhat as we then were stirred. Long years 
and many avocations have somewhat effaced the impression he 
first made, but the printed words serve faintly to recall it. Thus 
it is with our immortal Souls. They have sojourned in that 
celestial region where the voice of Truth rings clearly, where the 
aspect of Truth is unveiled, undimmed. They are now sojourn¬ 
ing in this fleeting, flowing river of life, stung with resistless 
longings for the skies, and solaced only by the reminiscences of 
that former state which these fleeting, broken, incoherent images 
of Ideas awaken in them. 


plato’s psychology. 


223 


It is a mistake to suppose tliis a mere poetical conception. 
Plato never sacrifices logic to poetry. If lie sometimes calls 
poetry to his aid, it is only to express by it those ideas which 
logic cannot grasp, ideas which are beyond demonstration; but 
he never indulges in mere fancies. Instead therefore of saying 
that Reason was occupied with innate ideas, he consistently said 
that every thing which the senses did not furnish was a reminis¬ 
cence of the world of Ideas. 

We are now in a condition to answer the question with which 
the last Section was closed,—How to ascertain the Truth, if 
Phenomena are not exact copies of Noumena ? The sensation 
awakens recollection, and the recollection is of Truth; the soul 
is confronted with the Many by means of Sense, and by means 
of Reason it detects the One in the Many ; i. e. the particular 
things perceived by Sense awaken the recpllection of Universals 
or Ideas. But this recollection of Truth is always more or less 
imperfect. Absolute Truth is for the Gods alone. Ho man is 
without some of the divine spark. Philosophers alone have any 
large share; and they might increase it by a proper method. 

The philosophy of Plato has two distinct branches, somewhat 
resembling what we found in Parmenides. The universe is di¬ 
vided into two parts: the celestial region of Ideas, and the 
mundane region of material phenomena. These answer very 
'well to the modern conception of Heaven and Earth. As the 
phenomena of matter are but copies of Ideas (not, as some sup¬ 
pose, their bodily realization ), there arises a question : How do 
Ideas become Matter ? In other words : How do Things partici¬ 
pate in Ideas? We have mooted the question in the former 
Section, where we said that it admitted of no satisfactory solu¬ 
tion ; nor does it; and we must not be surprised to find Plato 
giving, at different times, two very different explanations. These 
two explanations are too curious to be overlooked. In the Re- 
'public , he says that God, instead of perpetually creating individ¬ 
ual things, created a distinct type (Idea) for each thing. From 
this type all other things of the class are made. Thus, God made 


224 


plato’s psychology. 


the Idea of a bed: according to this type, any carpentei may 
now fashion as many beds as he likes, in the same way as an 
artist may imitate in his paintings the types already created, but 
cannot himself create any thing new. The argument, as an 
illustration of Plato’s Method, may be given here : 

“Shall we proceed according to our usual Method? That 
Method, as you know, is the embracing under one general Idea 
the multiplicity of things which exist separately, but have the 
same name. You comprehend ? 

“ Perfectly. 

“ Let us take any thing you like. For instance, there is a 
multiplicity of beds and tables ? 

“ Certainly. 

“ But these two kinds are comprised, one under the Idea of a 
bed, and the other under the Idea of a table ? 

“ Without doubt. 

“ And we say that the carpenter who makes one of these arti¬ 
cles, makes the bed or the table according to the Idea he has of 
each. For he does not make the Idea itself. That is impossible? 

“ Truly, that is impossible. 

“ Well, now, what name shall we bestow on the workman 
whom I am now going to name ? 

“ What workman ? 

“ Him who makes what all the other workmen make sepa¬ 
rately. 

“You speak of a powerful man! 

“ Patience; you will admire him still more. This workmen 
has not only the talent of making all the works of art, but also 
all the works of nature; plants, animals, every thing else ; in a 
word, himself.* He makes the Heaven, the Earth, the Gods; 
every thing in Heaven, Earth, or Hell. 


* T<£ rt a\\a Kal iavr6v. We are inclined to regard this passage as cor¬ 
rupt, the self-creation of God being certainly no Platonic notion; at least 
not countenanced by any other passage in any other work. The scholiast 
makes no •comment on it. 




rLATO’s PSYCHOLOGY. 


225 


“ You speak of a wonderful workman, truly ! 

“ You seem to doubt me ? But, tell me, do you think there is 
no such workman; or, do you think that in one sense any one 
could do all this, hut in another no one could ? Could you not 
yourself succeed in a certain way ? 

“ In what way ? 

“ It is not difficult; it is often done, and in a short time. Take 
a mirror, and turn it round on all sides: in an instant you will 
have made the sun and stars, the earth, yourself, the animals and 
plants, works of art, and all we mentioned. 

“ Yes, the images, the appearances, but not the real things. 

“ Yery well; you comprehend my opinion. The painter is a 
workman of this class, is he not ? 

“ Certainly. 

“You will tell me that he makes nothing: real, although he 
makes a bed in a certain way ? 

“ Yes; hut it is only an appearance, an image. 

“ And the carpenter, did you not allow that the bed which he 
made was not the Idea which we call the essence of the bed, the 
real bed, but only a certain bed ? 

“ I said so, indeed. 

“ If, then, he does not make the Idea of the bed, he makes 
nothing real, but only something which represents that which 
really exists. And, if any one maintain that the carpenter’s work 
lias a real existence he will be in error.”* 

In the Timceus , perhaps the most purely expository of all his 
works, and unquestionably one of the latest, Plato takes a totally 
different view of the creation of the world. God is there said, 
not to create types (Ideas); but these types having existed from 
all eternity, God in fashioning Chaos fashioned it after the model 
of these Ideas. In this view there is no participation in the na¬ 
ture of Ideas, but only a participation in their form. 

Whichever hypothesis he adopted (and Plato did not much 


* Repub. x. 467-8, ed. Bekker. 




226 tlato’s psychology. 

care for either), this conception of Heaven and Earth as two dif 
ferent regions, is completed by the conception of the double na¬ 
ture of the soul; or rather, of two souls: one Rational and the 
other Sensitive. These two souls are closely connected, as the 
two regions of Ideas and Phenomena are connected. Neither of 
them is superfluous; neither of them, in a human sense, suffi¬ 
cient : they complete each other. The Sensitive soul awakens 
the reminiscences of the Rational soul; and the Rational soul, 
by detecting the One in the Many, preserves Man from the skep¬ 
ticism inevitably resulting from mere sense-knowledge. 

Thus did Plato resume in himself all the conflicting tendencies 
of his age; thus did he accept each portion of the truth supposed 
to be discovered by his predecessors, and reconcile these portions 
in one general tendency. In that vast system, all skepticism and 
all faith found acceptance : the skepticism was corrected, the faith 
was propped up by more solid arguments. He admitted, with 
the skeptics, the imperfection of all sense-knowledge; but, though 
imperfect, he declared it not worthless: it is no more like the 
Truth than phenomena are like Ideas; but, as phenomena are in 
some sort modelled after Ideas, and do, therefore, in some dim 
way, represent Ideas, so does sense-knowledge lead the patient 
thinker to something like the Truth: it awakens in him remi¬ 
niscence of the Truth. As Ritter says, “He shows, in detail, 
that in the world of sense there is no perfect likeness, but that 
an object which at one time appears like, is at another thought 
to be unlike, and is, therefore, defective in completeness of re¬ 
semblance, and has at most but a tendency thereto. The same 
is the case with the Beautiful, the Good, the Just, the Holy, and 
with all that really is ; in the sensible world there is nothing 
exactly resembling them, neither similar nor dissimilar; all, 
however, that possesses any degree of correspondence with these 
true species of being is perceived by us through the senses, and 
thereby reminds us of what truly is. From this it is clear that 
he had previously seen it somewhere, or been conscious of it, 
and, as this could not have been in the present, it must have 


SUMMARY OF PLATO’S DIALECTICS. 


227 


been in some earlier state of existence. In this respect there is 
a close connection between this doctrine and the view of sensible 
objects, which represents them as mere copies or resemblances of 
the super-sensible truth; for, even in perception, a feeling arises 
upon the mind, that all we see or hear is very far from reaching 
to a likeness to that which is the true being and the absolutely 
like; but that, striving to attain, it falls short of perfect resem¬ 
blance ; and consequently, the impressions of the sense are mere 
tokens of the eternal ideas, whose similitude they bear, and of 
which they are copies.” 

§ VI. Summary of Plato’s Dialectics. 

Having exhibited Plato’s conceptions of Method, of Ideas, and 
of the Soul, it will now be convenient to take a brief review of 
them, to exhibit their position in the general doctrine. 

Dialectics was the base of the Platonic doctrine. Indeed, 
Plato believed in no other Science; Dialectics and Philosophy 
were synonymous. For Dialectics (or Logic) to be synonymous 
with Philosophy, the theory of Ideas was necessary. Dialectics 
is the science of general propositions, of general terms, of univer- 
sals. To become the science it must necessarily be occupied with 
more important things. Ideas are these important things; for 
Ideas are at once the only real Existences, and General Terms. 
Whoso discoursed about General Terms discoursed about Exist¬ 
ence ; and deeper than that, no science could hope to penetrate. 
Plato, whose opinions can scarcely ever be accepted as final, is 
both explicit and constant in his conception of Dialectics as the 
science. To determine the real nature of science, he devotes an 
entire dialogue : the Theodetus. That remarkable work is pure¬ 
ly critical; it refutes the opinions of adversaries, in such a way 
as to leave no doubt as to Plato’s own opinion. All attempts to 
constitute science either upon perception or upon opin¬ 

ion (S of a) he refutes in an irresistible manner. Perception can 
only be of objects which have no stability, which have no real 
Existence. Opinion, though it be correct, is unable to constitute 


228 SUMMARY OF PLATO’S DIALECTICS. 

science; for there are two sorts of opinion,—false and true ; and 
to distinguish the true from the false would require a science 
which knew the Truth. It follows, as a necessary consequence, 
that Ideas, which are the real immutable elements of science, 
must be known in themselves, and that science consists in seek¬ 
ing the order of development of these Ideas; that is to say, in 
Dialectics. 

Owing to the Ideal theory, Dialectics was necessarily the sci¬ 
ence ; that is, the science of Being. The distinction between his 
Dialectics and the Logic of his successors is very marked. While 
he spoke of Dialectics as the art of methodical classification of 
genera,—the art of speaking upon general notions,—he did not 
confine it to subjective truth; for he believed this subjective 
truth to be only a reflex of the objective reality: he believed 
that abstract ideas were images of real existences. Dialectics, 
was therefore not only the “ art of thinking,” but the science of 
immutable bein£. 

o 

In the twofold aspect of Creation there was this division of 
knowledge: 

Perception. 

Matter, phenomena, <rd yiyvo[xsm= Sensation = Opinion. 

Dialectics. 

Existence, Ideas, rd 6Va = Abstract Ideas = Science. 

In the everchanging flux of Becoming, which was the object 
of Perception, there were traces of the immutable Being, which 
was the object of science. This distinction may be applied to 
Plato’s own manifold works. We may say of them that the 
opinions on psychology, physics, ethics, and politics are con¬ 
stantly changing, uncertain; but amidst all these various opin¬ 
ions there reigns one constant Method. He never wavers as to 
Dialectics. We may therefore fully understand the importance 
bestowed on Dialectics; and we may also clearly see what is 
meant by identifying his Philosophy with Dialectics. 

The basis of the Platonic doctrine therefore is Dialectics ; the 


rLATO's THEOLOGY AND COSMOLOGY. 


229 


subject-matter of Dialectics consists of Ideas; and the Method 
consists of Definitions , Analysis, and Induction. 

§ VII. Plato’s Theology and Cosmology. 

Hitherto we have been occupied solely with the general doc¬ 
trine ; w’e have now to descend to particulars. But, as so often 
remarked, particular doctrines have scarcely any stability in the 
Platonic writings; what is advanced to-day is refuted to-morrow; 
accordingly, critics and historians have squabbled about these 
wavering opinions, as if agreement were possible. One declares 
Plato held one opinion; and cites his passages in proof. An¬ 
other thinks his predecessor a blockhead; and cites other pas¬ 
sages wholly destructive of the opinion Plato is said to have 
maintained. A third comes, and, stringing passages from one 
dialogue to passages from another, interprets the whole in his 
own way. A consistent Theological doctrine will not therefore 
be expected from us: we can only reproduce some of the Pla¬ 
tonic notions, those especially which have influenced later thinkers. 

In the same way as Plato sought to detect the One amidst the 
Multiplicity of material phenomena, and, having detected it, de¬ 
clared it to be the real essence of matter, so also did he seek to 
detect the One amidst the Multiplicity of Ideas, and, having de¬ 
tected it, declared it to be God. What Ideas were to Phenom¬ 
ena, God was to Ideas: the last result of generalization. God 
was thus the One Being comprising within himself all other Be¬ 
ings, the sv xa i -jroXXa, the Cause of all things, celestial and ter¬ 
restrial. God was the supreme Idea. Whatever view we take 
of the Platonic cosmology—whether God created Ideas, or 
whether he only fashioned unformed matter after the model of 
Ideas—we are equally led to the conviction, that God represent¬ 
ed the supreme Idea of all Existence; the great Intelligence, 
source of all other Intelligences; the Sun whose light illumined 
creation. God is perfect, ever the same, without envy, wishing 
nothing but good: for, although a clear knowledge of God is 
impossible to mortals, an approximation to that knowledge is 


230 plato’s theology and cosmology. 

possible: we cannot know wliat lie is, we can only know what 
he is like. He must be good, because self-sufficing; and the 
world is good, because he made it. Why did he make it ? God 
made the world because he was free from envy, and wished that 
all things should resemble him as much as possible; he there¬ 
fore 'persuaded Necessity to become stable, harmonious, and fash¬ 
ioned according to Excellence. Yes, persuaded is Plato’s word; 
for there were two eternal Principles, Intelligence and Necessity , 
and from the mixture of these the world was made; but Intelli¬ 
gence persuaded Necessity to be fashioned according to Excel¬ 
lence.* He arranged chaos into Beauty. But, as there is 
nothing beautiful but Intelligence, and as there is no Intelligence 
without a Soul, he placed a Soul into the body of the World, 
and made the World an animal. 

Plato’s proof of the world being an animal is too curious a 
specimen of his analogical reasoning to be passed over. There is 
warmth in the human being; there is warmth also in the world : 
the human being is composed of various elements, and is there¬ 
fore called a body; the world is also composed of various ele¬ 
ments, and is therefore a body; and, as our bodies have souls, 
the body of the world must have a soul; and that soul stands in 
the same relation to our souls, as the warmth of the world stands 
to our warmth.f Having thus demonstrated the world to be an 
animal, it was but natural he should conceive that animal as re¬ 
sembling its creator, and human beings as resembling the uni¬ 
versal animal, <ro <7rav £ojov. As soon as the World, that imao-e 
of the eternal Gods, as soon as that vast Animal besran to move, 
live, and think, God looked upon his work, and was glad.]; 

But although God in his goodness w’ould have made nothing 

* Mepiyptvri yup obv fj rovde rov tcdopov ytvcaif if avdyxtjs rs xat vov cri xrraVswj 
cyevvrjdtj , vov 6 ( avayxris ap%6vros r<3 nctOeiv airf/v tuv yiyvopivuv ra nXetan ini 
to (HXtiotov dyctv. — 7 ' im 0 ZUS , p. 56. 

f Philebus , pp. 170-1. 

t of KivTjOtv avrb Kai (itvbrjot tojv diStojv OeCov yeyovoi dyaXpa b ytv * 
vr/aas nar'/jp, bydoOrj re xni tveppavdtif cti 6fi pdXXov opoiov npbs rb napdbttypa 
\ntv6rj<jzv dntpydoaoQat. — TimcVUS , p. 36. 



PLATO’S THEOLOGY AND COSMOLOGY. 


231 


evil, lie could not prevent the existence of it. Various disputes 
have been warmly carried on by scholars, respecting the nature 
of this Evil which Plato w r as forced to admit. Some have con¬ 
ceived it nothing less than the Manichsean doctrine. Thus much 
we may say: the notion of an antagonist principle is inseparable 
from every religious formula: as God can only be Good, and as 
Evil does certainly exist, it must exist independently of him; it 
must be eternal. Plato cut the matter very short by his logical 
principle,—that since there was a Good, there must necessarily 
be the contrary of Good, namely, Evil. If Evil exists, how does 
it exist, and where ? It cannot find place in the celestial region 
of Ideas. It must therefore necessarily dwell in the terrestrial 
region of phenomena: its home is the world; it is banished 
from heaven. And is not this logical? What is the world of 
Phenomena but an imperfect copy of the world of Ideas, and 
how can the imperfect be the purely Good ? When Ideas are 
“ realized,” as the Pantheists would say, when Ideas, pure immu¬ 
table essences, are clothed in material forms, or when matter is 
fashioned after the model of those Ideas, what can result but im¬ 
perfections? The Ideas are not in this world: they are only in 
a state of becoming , oV us ovr a, not yiyv o/xsva. Phenomena are 
in their very nature imperfect: they are perpetually striving to 
exist as realities. In their constitution there is something of the 
divine: an image of the Idea, and some participation in it; but 
more of the primeval chaos. 

Those, therefore, w 7 ho say that Plato thought that “ Evil was 
inherent in matter,” though expressing themselves loosely, ex¬ 
press themselves on the whole correctly. Matter was the great 
Necessity which Intelligence fashioned. Because it was Neces¬ 
sity and unintelligent, it was Evil, for Intelligence alone can be 
good.* 


* In the Laws , x. pp. 201-2, he curiously distinguished the voSs from the 
in this manner. The t pi<x^ (vital principle) is the self-moving principle • * 
but, inasmuch as it is sometimes moved to bad as well as to good (r<2>v re aya- 
OCov airiav ttvai \pvx>jv r&v kukwv ), it was necessary to have some other 



232 


plato’s theology and cosmology. 


Now, as this world of phenomena is the region where Evil 
dwells, we must use our utmost endeavors to escape from it. 
And how escape? By suicide?—No. By leading the life of 
the Gods; and every Platonist knows that the life of the Gods 
consists in the eternal contemplation of Truth, of Ideas. Thus, as 
on every side, are we forced to encounter Dialectics as the sole 
salvation for man. 

From the above explanation of the nature of Evil, it will be 
seen that there is no contradiction in Plato’s saying, that the 
quantity of Evil in this life exceeded that of the Good ; it exceeds 
it in the proportion that phenomena exceed noumena,—that 
matter exceeds Ideas. 

But although Evil be a necessary part of the world, it is in 
constant struggle with Good. What is this but the struggle of 
Becoming ? And man is endowed with Free Will and Intelli¬ 
gence : he may therefore choose between Good and Evil.* * And 
according to his choice will his future life be regulated. Me¬ 
tempsychosis w r as a doctrine Plato borrowed from Pythagoras; 
and in that doctrine he could find arguments for the enforce¬ 
ment of a sage and virtuous life, which no other afforded at that 
epoch. 

We have said nothing of the arguments whereby Plato proves 
the existence of God; for we have been forced to pass over many 
details: but we cannot close this chapter without alluding to an 
argument often used in modern times, and seldom suspected to 
have had so ancient an upholder,—God is proved to exist, by 
the very feeling of affinity to his nature which stirs within our 
souls. 

Such opinions as those above set down were certainly ex¬ 
pressed by Plato at different times: but we again warn the 


principle which should determine its direction. He therefore makes voli 
(intelligence) the principle which determines the soul (whether the soul of 
the world or of man, it is the same) to good; and avota (ignorance -want of 
nous) which determines it to evil 

* Laivs, x. p. 217. 



THE BEAUTIFUL AND THE GOOD. 


233 


reader against supposing them to have been his constant views. 
They are taken from works written at wide intervals, and bearing 
considerable difference of opinion; and in those very works there 
are occasional glimpses of an appalling doctrine, namely, that 
man is but the plaything of God, who alternately governs and 
forsakes the world. The first clause of this sentence seems de¬ 
rived from Heraclitus, who said, “ that making worlds was the 
sport of Demiurgos.” Plato’s words are these: a vdpwtfov 6s Qsov 
<n iron yvjov slvai /xs/LTj^avrj/As'vov : and this is said to be man’s great¬ 
est excellence.* The second clause is formally expressed by 
Plato thus: “ God,” he says, “ alternately governs and forsakes 
the world; when he governs it, things go on well: it is the age 
of gold; when he forsakes it, the world suddenly turns round in 
a contrary orbit,—a fearful crisis takes place, all things are dis¬ 
ordered, mundane existence is totally disarranged, and only after 
some time do things settle down to a sort of order, though of a 
very imperfect kind.”} 

§ VIII. Plato’s View of the Beautiful and the Good. 

So much has been written and talked in modern times of <ro 
xaXov, “ the Beautiful,” as conceived by Plato, and this by per¬ 
sons who never read a line of his works, that we must devote a 
few sentences to it. 

The bond which unites the human to the divine is Love. And 
Love is the longing of the Soul for Beauty; the inextinguishable 
desire which like feels for like, which the divinity within us feels 
for the divinity revealed to us in Beauty. This is the celebrated 
Platonic Love, which, from having originally meant a com¬ 
munion of two souls, and that in a rigidly dialectical sense, has 
been degraded to the expression of maudlin sentiment between 
the sexes. Platonic love meant ideal sympathy; it now means 
the love of a sentimental young gentleman for a woman he can¬ 
not or will not marry. 


* Laws , vii. p. 32. 


t Politicus , p. 280. 



234 


TIIE BEAUTIFUL AND THE GOOD. 


But what is Beauty ? Not the mere flattery of the senses. It 
does not consist in harmonious outlines and resplendent colors: 
these are but the indications of it. Beauty is Truth. It is the 
radiant image of tbat which was most splendid in the world of 
Ideas. Listen to Plato’s description of it in the Phcedrus :— 
“ For, as we have already said, every human soul has actually 
seen the Real Existences, or it w r ould not have come into a 
human shape. But it is not easy for all of them to call to mind 
what they then saw; those, especially, which saw that region 
for a short time only, and those which, having fallen to the earth, 
were so unfortunate as to be turned to injustice, and consequent 
oblivion of the sacred things which were seen by them in their 
prior state. Few, therefore, remain who are adequate to the re¬ 
collection of those things. These few, when they see here any 
image or resemblance of the things which are there, receive a 
shock like a thunderbolt, and are in a manner taken out of them¬ 
selves ; but, from deficiency of comprehension, they know not 
what it is which so affects them. Now t , the likenesses which 
exist there of Justice and Temperance, and the other things 
which the soul honors, do not possess any splendor; and a few 
persons only, with great difficulty, by the aid of dull, blunt, ma¬ 
terial organs, perceive the terrestrial likenesses of those qualities, 
and recognize them. But Beauty was not only most splendid 
when it was seen by us forming part of the heavenly possession 
or choir, but here also the likeness of it comes to us through the 
most acute and clear of our senses, that of sight, and with a 
splendor which no other of the terrestrial images of superceles¬ 
tial Existences possess. They, then, who are not fresh from 
heaven, or who have been corrupted, are not vehemently im¬ 
pelled towards that Beauty which is aloft when they see that 
upon earth which is called by its name ; they do not, therefore, 
venerate and worship it, but give themselves up to physical 
pleasure after the manner of a quadruped. But they w r ho are 
fresh from those divine objects of contemplation, and who have 
formerly contemplated them much, when they see a godlike 


THE BEAUTIFUL AND TIIE GOOD. 


235 


countenance or form, in which celestial beauty is imaged and 
well imitated, are first struck with a holy awe, and then, ap¬ 
proaching, venerate this beautiful object as a god, and, if they 
were not afraid of the reputation of too raving a madness, would 
erect altars, and perform sacrifices to it. 

“And the warmth and genial influence derived from the at¬ 
mosphere which beauty generates around itself, entering through 
the eyes, softens and liquefies the inveterate induration, which 
coats and covers up the parts in the vicinity of the wings, and 
prevents them from growing. This being melted, the wings be¬ 
gin to germinate and increase, and this, like the growing of the 
teeth, produces an itching and irritation which disturbs the 
whole frame of the soul. When, therefore, by the contempla¬ 
tion of the beautiful object, the induration is softened and the 
wings begin to shoot, the soul is relieved from its pain and 
rejoices; but when that object is absent, the liquefied sub¬ 
stance hardens again, and closes up the young shoots of the 
wings, which consequently boil up and throb, and throw the 
soul into a state of turbulence and rage, and will neither 
allow it to sleep nor remain at rest, until it can again see 
the beautiful object, and be relieved. For this reason it never 
willingly leaves that object, but for its sake deserts parents, 
and brothers, and friends, and neglects its patrimony, and de¬ 
spises all established usages on which it valued itself before. 
And this affection is Love.” 

The reader is doubtless by this time familiar enough with the 
Platonic philosophy to appreciate this passage. He will see the 
dialectical meaning of this poetical myth. He will comprehend, 
also, that the Platonic Love is naturally more appropriate between 
two men, master and pupil, than between the two sexes; because 
it is then purer, and less disturbed by other feelings. 

Beauty is the most vivid image of Truth : it is divinity in its 
most perceptible form. But what is the Good ? The Good, ro 
ctyadov, is God, but God considered in the abstract. Truth, 
Beauty, Justice, are all aspects of the Deity; Goodness is his 


236 PLATO’S ETHICS. 

nature. The Good is therefore incapable of being perceived; it 
can only be known in reflection. In the same manner as the 
sun is the cause of sight, and also the cause of the objects of 
sight growing and being produced, so also the Good is the cause 
of science, and the cause of being to whatever is the object of 
science: and, as the sun itself is not sight, nor the object of sight, 
but presides over both ; so also the Good is not science, nor the 
object of science, but is superior to both, for they are not the 
Good, but goodly. 


§ IX. Plato’s Ethics. 

Plato was a Socratist. Hitherto, however, we have seen him 
following his master only in his Method. The speculations on 
Ideas, Reminiscence, Metempsychosis, God, etc., were things he 
did not learn from Socrates, although the Socratic Method led 
him to these conceptions. We have before seen that Socrates 
occupied himself almost exclusively with Ethical topics; and it 
is in Ethics, therefore, that we may expect to find Plato resem¬ 
bling him. 

Plato’s ethical opinions are logical rather than ethical; that 
is to say, they are deductions from certain abstract logical prem¬ 
ises, not from investigations into human nature. Thus, when 
“ engaged with the discussion of particular sciences, he resolves 
them into the science of Good; when engaged with the partic¬ 
ular virtues, he resolves them into the virtue of Science.”* Every¬ 
where the Good and the True are convertible terms, and Virtue 
is the same as Science. There is, moreover, considerable contra¬ 
diction in his various works on this, as on other points. In one 
dialogue ( Timceus ) he advocates Free Will; in another (Hippias 
Minor), Fatalism. Sometimes vice is involuntary, at other 
times voluntary: sometimes, indeed generally, vice is nothing 
but ignorance; elsewhere, as we have shown, vice is said to be 
partly ignorance and partly incontinence. Virtue is said to be 


* Archer Butler, Lectures , ii. 61 . 



plato’s ethics. 


237 


Science; yet Knowledge alone does not constitute Happiness, 
nor can Virtue be taught. 

Although, therefore, many passages may be quoted in which 
morals are worthily spoken of, we cannot but regard as chimeri¬ 
cal any attempt to deduce from them an ethical system. All 
that can safely be relied on is general views; such, for instance, 
as his subordination of Ethics to Dialectics. As M. De Gerando 
well observes, “he did not found his ethics on a principle of 
obligation, on the definition of duty, but on the tendency to per¬ 
fection.” 

In Plato’s Ethics the passions are entirely set aside; they are 
regarded as disturbances in the moral economy. Virtue is pure¬ 
ly a matter of intelligence; and the intellect has therefore not 
only a regulative office, but the supreme direction of all action.* 
Now, as Chamfort admirably said, “the Philosopher who would 
set aside the passions, resembles a Chemist who would extinguish 
his fire.” We are all aware that it is very common “ to know 
the right, aud yet the wrong pursue that the passions not only 
disturb the regulative action of Reason, but positively triumph 
over it; and that morals are our mom, our habits , as much as 
our beliefs. 

The Ethics of Plato might suit the inhabitants of another 
world; they are useless to the inhabitants of this. His Politics 
are his Ethics applied to the State, and labor under the same 
errors. But his Utopian Government, the Republic, has had too 
much celebrity for us to neglect it. 

The Republic is unquestionably one of the most interesting of 
his works; and so slow has been the progress of social science, 
compared with every other science, that many of the views Plato 
has there put forth are still entertained by very serious thinkers; 


* We cannot interrupt our exposition with any examples; they are too 
numerous. But we may remind the student of that passage in the Gorgias 
respecting the misery of the unjust man, in which Plato endeavors to prove 
that he who does an injury suffers more than he who endures it. 

18 




plato's ethics. 


23S 

whereas his views on morals seldom, his views on physics never 
find a defender. 

The weakness of man is the cause why States are formed. As 
he cannot suffice to himself, he must live in society. This society 
should be an image of man himself. The faculties which belong 
to him must find a proper field of activity in society ; and this 
vast union of intellects should form but one intelligence. Thus 
man’s virtues are, 1. 9 poV/jo'jj, wisdom ; 2. dvSpslcc, fortitude ; 3. 

otf^vy), temperance; 4. Sixcuotfuvr], justice. The State, there¬ 
fore must have its Rulers, the philosophers, who will represent 
wisdom ; its Soldiers, who will represent fortitude ; its Craftsmen 
and burghers, who will represent temperance. Justice is a qual¬ 
ity which must be shared by all classes, as lying at the root of 
all virtuous action. 

I 11 wisdom and justice we have the alpha and omega of Plato’s 
doctrine: justice is wisdom in act. The office of the Rulers is 
therefore to ordain such laws as will eventually prevent all in¬ 
justice in the State. Their first care will be to instil into the 
minds of the citizens just notions respecting the Deity. All those 
who attribute to the Deity the passions and imperfections of men 
must be banished : hence the famous banishment of the poets, 
of which so much has been said. This law, pushed to its rigor¬ 
ous conclusions, is the law of fanaticism. Whatever the Rulers 
believed respecting Religion, was to be the Religion of the State. 
Strange that a pupil of Socrates should have advocated a law, 
the operation of which caused his master’s condemnation! But 
there are other causes for the banishment of the poets besides 
their fictions respecting the Gods. They enervate the soul by 
pictures of immoderate desires; they give imitations of the vices 
and follies of men; they overstep the limits of that moderation 
which alone can balance the soul. Even the musicians are to 
be banished; those at least who are plaintive and harmonious. 
Oul)’ - the Dorian and the Phrygian music can be admitted; the 
one impetuous and warlike, the other calm. 

There is a germ of Stoicism in Plato, and that germ is here 


plato’s ethics. 


239 


seen developed. A measured equability of mind was bis ideal 
of human happiness, and any thing which interfered with it was 
denounced. Poetry and music interfered with this equability, 
and so did conjugal love. As the State could not subsist with¬ 
out children, children must be begotten. But parents are fool¬ 
ishly fond ; they are avaricious for their children; ambitious for 
them. Husbands are also foolishly fond. To prevent these dis¬ 
turbances of good order, Plato ordains community of wives, and 
interdicts parentage. Women are to be chosen for marriage as 
brood-mares are chosen. The violent women to be assorted to 
the mild men ; the mild to be assorted to violent men. But the 
children belong to the State. They are, therefore, to be con¬ 
signed to the State Nurses, who will superintend their early edu¬ 
cation. Because children manifest different capacities, Plato 
thought with St. Simon, that each citizen should be ranked ac¬ 
cording to his capacity, the State would undertake to decide to 
which class the young man should belong. But, if domestic life 
is thus at a blow sacrificed to the public good, do not imagine 
that women will lose their occupations. No : women must share 
with men the toils of war and agriculture. The female dog guards 
sheep as well as the male; why should not the women guard 
the State ?* And, as some few women manifest a capacity for 
philosophy, those few will share with men the government. 
With community of wives and children, it is natural that com¬ 
munity of property should be joined. Property is the great dis¬ 
turber of social life; it engenders crimes and luxuries which are 
scarcely better than crimes. Property, therefore, must be abol¬ 
ished. The State alone has riches. 

In one word, the Family, no less than the individual, is sacri¬ 
ficed to the State; the State itself being an Abstraction. Like 
the Utopists of modern days, Plato has developed an a priori 
theory of what the State should be, and by this theory all human 
feelings are to be neglected; instead of developing a theory a 


* This is Plato’s own illustration. 



240 


plato’s ethics. 


jiosteriori , i. e. from an investigation into the nature of human 
wants and feelings. 

By thus reducing the Republic to its theoretical formula, we 
are doubtless viewing it in its most unfavorable light. Its value, 
and its interest, do not consist in its political ideas, but in its 
collateral suggestions on education, religion, and morals. But 
these are beside our present purpose.* 

Willingly would we discourse upon this remarkable book at 
greater length; but, although we have only touched on a few 
points connected with Plato, we have already exhausted the space 
we could afford, and must close here this imperfect account of 
one of the greatest minds of antiquity. If we have assigned him 
his due position in the history of human development—if we 
have in some sort presented the reader with a clue, whereby he 
may traverse the labyrinth of that celebrated but much misrep¬ 
resented writer—if we have succeeded in conveying some im¬ 
pression of the man, more consonant with truth than that usually 
accredited, we have performed our task. 


* In the Laws , many of the political and social notions are modified; but 
the general theory is the same. 



SEVENTH EPOCH. 


PHILOSOPHY AGAIN REDUCED TO A SYSTEM: CLOSE OF THE 
SOCRATIC MOVEMENT.—ARISTOTLE. 


CHAPTER I. 

ARISTOTLE. 

§ I. Life of Aristotle. 

When Plato was leaving Athens for the journey into Sicily, 
of which we have spoken, and which occupied him three years 
or more, Aristotle appeared in that active city, a restless youth 
of seventeen; rich both iu money and in knowledge, eager, im¬ 
petuous, truth-loving, and insatiable in his thirst for philosophy. 
Tidings of the wondrous men who made that city illustrious, and 
whose fame still sheds a halo round its ruins, had reached him 
in his native land; tidings of the great thinkers and the crowded 
schools had lured him, though so young, to Athens. 

Aristotle was born at Stagira, a colony in Thrace, Olympiad 
99 (b. c. 384.) His father, Nicomachus, was an eminent physi¬ 
cian, who had written several works on medicine and natural 
history; so that Aristotle’s love of such subjects may be called 
hereditary. And this hereditary love so conspicuous in the mar¬ 
vellous results of the two treatises on the History of Animals 
and the Parts of Animals —works which modern science is daily 
enabling us to appreciate better—may have been fostered by the 
opportunities Stagira offered him in his boyhood. It was a town 
on the western side of the Strymonic Gulf, just where the general 



242 


ARISTOTLE. 


line of coast takes a southerly direction. Immediately south, a 
promontory ran out towards the east, effectually screening the 
town and its little harbor Capros (formed by the island of the 
same name), from the violence of the squalls coming up the 
JEgean. “ In the terraced windings too, by which the visitor 
climbs through the orange groves of Sorento, he may without 
any great violence imagine the narrow and steep paths by which 
an ancient historian and chorographer describes those who crossed 
the mountains out of Macedcjnia, as descending into the valley of 
Arethusa, where was seen the tomb of Euripides and the town of 
Stagira.”* 

Aristotle, losing his parents at an early age, was consigned to 
the care of a certain Proxenus, who had him instructed in all the 
physical knowledge of the time. Proxenus died, and Aristotle 
then fulfilled his desire of seeing Athens. 

During the three years of Plato’s absence Aristotle was not 
idle. He prepared himself to be a worthy pupil. His wealth 
enabled him to purchase those costly luxuries, Books—there was 
no cheap Literature in those days—and in them he studied the 
speculations of the early thinkers, with a zeal and intelligence of 
which his own writings bear ample evidence. There were also 
some friends and followers of Socrates and Plato still at Athens: 
men who had listened to the entrancing conversation of the “old 
man eloquent,” who could still remember with a smile his keen 
and playful irony; and others who were acquainted with some 
of the deep thoughts brooding in the melancholy soul of Plato. 
These Aristotle eagerly questioned, and from them prepared him¬ 
self to receive the lessons of his future teacher. 

Plato returned. His school was opened, and Aristotle joined 
the crowd of his disciples, amongst whom the penetrating glance 
of the master soon detected the immortal pupil. Plato saw that 
the impetuous youth needed the curb; but there was promise of 
greatness in that very need. His restless activity was charac- 


* Blakesley’s Life cf Aristotle, p. 12. 




LIFE OF ARISTOTLE. 


243 

terized by Plato iu an epithet: “ Aristotle is the Mind of my 
school.” 

Aristotle continued to listen to Plato for seventeen years; that 
is, till the death of the latter. But he did not confine himself to 
the Platonic Philosophy: nor did he entirely agree with it. And 
from this disagreement has arisen the vulgar notion of a personal 
disagreement between Master and Pupil: a notion, to be sure, 
propped up with pretended anecdotes, and refuted by others 
equally authentic. Much has been written on this quarrel, and 
on what people call Aristotle’s ingratitude. We place no reli¬ 
ance on it. The same thing was said of Plato with respect to 
Socrates; and we have excellent reasons for treating that as cal¬ 
umny. In his writings Aristotle doubtless combats the opinion 
of Plato; but he always mentions him with respect, sometimes 
with tenderness. If that be ingratitude, it is such as all pupils 
have manifested who have not been slavish followers.* 

It w r as a wise thought of Macedonian Philip to give his son 
Alexander such a preceptor as Aristotle. For four years was the 
illustrious pupil instructed by the illustrious master in poetry, 
rhetoric, and philosophy; and, when Alexander departed on his 
Indian expedition, a scholar of Aristotle’s, one Calisthenes, attend¬ 
ed him.f Both from Philip and from Alexander, the Stagirite 
received munificent assistance in all his undertakings: especially 
in the collection of natural curiosities, which were selected from 
captured provinces, to form the materials of the History of Ani¬ 
mals. 

“ The conqueror is said, in Athenoeus, to have presented his 
master with the sum of eight hundred talents (about two hun¬ 
dred thousand pounds sterling) to meet the expenses of his His - 
lory of Animals, and, enormous as the sum is, it is only in pro- 


* The question is discussed with ability by Mr. Blakesley in his Life of 
Aristotle, pp. 24-28. See also Stalir’s article on Aristotle in the Dictionary 
of G-reek and Roman Biography. 

+ The story that Aristotle himself accompanied Alexander is now univer¬ 
sally discredited. 



244 


ARISTOTLE. 


portion to the accounts we have of the vast wealth acquired bj> 
the plunder of the Persian treasures. Pliny also relates that 
some thousands of men were placed at his disposal for the pur¬ 
pose of procuring zoological specimens, which served as materi¬ 
als for this celebrated treatise. 5 ’* However he acquired his 
materials, it is becoming daily more evident that his work was 
based on direct knowledge, on actual inspection and dissection, 
not, as in Pliny’s case, on what others reported. Several of the 
most astonishing discoveries of modern naturalists are found to 
have been distinctly known to Aristotle; and even on such subtle 
questions as the affinities of animals, we are sometimes forced to 
come round to his classification. “Thus, in the end,” says Pro¬ 
fessor Forbes, in summing up his discussion on the classification 
of Acalephs, “ we revert curiously enough to the views of the 
affinities of these Animals proposed by Aristotle, who plainly in¬ 
cluded under the designation of axaX^qpij, both Actiniae and Me¬ 
dusae : not from any vague guess, or in compliance with the popu¬ 
lar recognition of their resemblance, but from a careful study of 
their structure and habits, as the varied notices preserved to us 
in the first, fourth, and fifth, eighth, and ninth books of the His¬ 
tory of Animals prove beyond question.”]- 

After a long interval Aristotle returned to Athens and opened 
a school in the Lyceum: a school which eclipsed all the others 
both in numbers and importance. It is curiously illustrative of 
his restless vivacious temperament that he could not stand still 
and lecture, but delivered his opinions whilst walking up and 
down the shady paths of the Lyceum, attended by his eager fol¬ 
lowers. Hence his disciples were called the Walking Philoso¬ 
phers—Peripatetics. 

Mr. Blakesley thinks that it was Aristotle’s delicate health 
which, combined with the wish to economize time, induced him 


* Blakesley, p. 68. 

t Forbes, Monograph of the Naked-Eyed Medusa, p. 88. On the subject of 
Aristotle’s zoological knowledge generally, see Meyer, Aristotells Thlerkunde , 
1855, and Do Blainvilie, Ilistoire des Sciences de V Organisation, 1S45. 



LIFE OF ARISTOTLE. 


245 


to lecture while walking. Diogenes Laertius attributes its origin 
to a regard for the health of his pupil, Alexander. The point is 
unimportant; enough for us to know that he did lecture while 
walking to and fro along the shady paths of the Lyceum. Pro¬ 
tagoras, as Mr. Blakesley reminds us, is represented by Plato as 
teaching in the same way; although not perhaps so systemati¬ 
cally as Aristotle. 

His lectures were of two kinds, scientific and popular— acroa - 
matic or acroatic, and exoteric. The former were for the more ad¬ 
vanced students, and those who were capable of pursuing scientific 
subjects: he delivered these in the morning. The latter were after¬ 
noon lectures to a much larger class, and treated of popular sub¬ 
jects—rhetoric, politics, and sophistics. Much learning and in¬ 
genuity has been thrown away in the endeavor to determine the 
precise nature of these two kinds of instruction ; but we cannot 
here discuss it. Those who conclude that the distinction between 
the esoteric and exoteric w r as a distinction of doctrine seem to us 
in error; the distinction was, as above stated, purely that of sub¬ 
ject-matter. Dialectics and Poetics are not addressed to the 
same hearers. 

He spent a long laborious life in the pursuit of knowledge, and 
wrote an incredible number of works, about a fourth of which 
it is calculated are extant; the division, arrangement, and au¬ 
thenticity of which has long been a pet subject of contention 
among scholars; but, as no agreement has yet been effected, 
we should have to swell our pages with arguments rather than 
results. 

The influence these works, spurious as well as genuine, have 
exercised on European culture, is incalculable, and we shall here¬ 
after have to speak of the tyranny of this influence. Nor was 
it alone over European culture they exercised a despotic sway. 

Translated in the fifth century of the Christian era into the 
Syriac language by the Nestorians who fled into Persia, and from 
Syriac into Arabic four hundred years later, his writings furnish¬ 
ed the Mohammedan conquerors of the East with a germ of sci- 


246 


ARISTOTLE. 


ence which, but for the effect of their religious and political in 
stitutions, might have shot up into as tall a tree as it did produce 
in the west; while his logical works, in the Latin translation 
which Boethius, ‘ the last of the Romans,’ bequeathed as a lega¬ 
cy to posterity, formed the basis of that extraordinary phenome¬ 
non, the Philosophy of the Schoolmen. An empire like this, 
extending over nearly twenty centuries of time, sometimes more, 
sometimes less despotically, but always with great force, recog¬ 
nized in Bagdad and in Cordova, in Egypt and in Britain, and 
leaving abundant traces of itself in the language and modes 
of thought of every European nation, is assuredly without a par¬ 
allel”* 

§ II. Aristotle’s Method. 

Plato and Aristotle may be said to contain all the speculative 
philosophy of Greece : whoso knows them, knows all that Greece 
had to teach. It is not our plan to draw comparisons between 
the greatness of two great men, otherwise these two would fur¬ 
nish a happy subject. We have endeavored to point out in what 
way Plato advanced the Philosophy of his age. We have now 
to do the same by Aristotle. 

Aristotle was the most learned man of antiquity, but this learn¬ 
ing did not enervate the vigor of his mind. He studiously 
sought, both in books and in external nature, for materials where¬ 
with to build a doctrine. Before laying down his own views he 
always examines the views of his predecessors with tedious mi¬ 
nuteness ; and his own opinions often seem brought out in his 
criticisms rather than dogmatically affirmed. Hence some have 
declared his Method to be the historical Method j a misconcep¬ 
tion not to be wondered at when we consider the abundance ot 
historical detail, and the absence of any express definition of his 
Method in his writings. 

O 

Unlike Plato, Aristotle never mentions the nature of his Meth- 


* Blakesicy, p. i. 



Aristotle’s method. 


247 


od ; but he has one, and we must detect it. We may expect to 
find it somewhat resembling that of his master, with some modi¬ 
fications of his own. Plato, as Yan Heusde, in the Initia Pla - 
tonicce remarks, stands a middle point between Socrates and Aris¬ 
totle. The Method of Socrates was one of Investigation; that 
of Aristotle was one of Demonstration. The Definition and In¬ 
duction of Socrates were powerful, but vague; the syllogism of 
Aristotle rendered them powerful and precise. Plato, as it were, 
fills up the gap between these two thinkers; by the addition of 
Analysis and Classification he reduced the Socratic Method to a 
more systematic form, and gave it precision. Where Plato left 
it, Aristotle took it up; and, by still further modifications, all 
of which had but one aim,— i. e. greater precision,—he gave it a 
solidity which enabled it to endure for centuries. 

Wherein did Plato and Aristotle fundamentally differ? Un¬ 
til the time of Hegel the general explanation of this difference was 
briefly to this effect: Plato is an Idealist, Aristotle a Materialist; 
the one a Rationalist, the other an Empiric: one trusting solely 
to Reason, the other solely to Experience. This explanation He¬ 
gel refuted by showing, that although Aristotle laid more stress 
upon experience than did Plato, yet he also expressly taught that 
Reason alone could form science.* 

Let us, then, try if we can penetrate the real difference. And 
to do so, we must first ask, What was the fundamental position 
of the Platonic doctrine ? That question admits of but one an¬ 
swer. The root of Plato’s philosophy is the theory of Ideas, 
whereby Dialectics became science. If here Aristotle be found to 
agree with his master, there can be no fundamental difference 
between them; if here he be found to differ, we may be able to 
deduce from it all other differences. 

Aristotle radically opposed the Ideal theory; and the greater 
part of his criticisms of Plato are criticisms of that theory. He 
does not deny to Ideas a subjective existence : on the contrary, 


* Hegel, Geschichte der Philos, ii. 311 sq. 



243 


ARISTOTLE. 


he makes them the materials of science ; but he is completely op* 
posed to their objective existence, calling it an empty and poeti¬ 
cal metaphor. He says, that on the supposition of Ideas being 
Existences and Models, there would be several Models for the 
same Thing; since the same thing may be classed under several 
heads. Thus, Socrates may be classed under the Ideas of Soc¬ 
rates, of Man, of Animal, and of Biped ; or Philosopher, General, 
and Statesman. The “stout Stagirite” not only perceived the 
logical error of the Ideal theory, but also saw how the error origi- 
nated. He profoundly remarked, that Ideas are nothing but 
productions of the Reason, separating, by a logical abstraction, 
the particular objects from those relations which are common to 
them all. He saw that Plato had mistaken a subjective distinc¬ 
tion for an objective one; had mistaken a relation, which the 
understanding perceived between two objects, for the evidence of 
a separate existence. The partisans of the theory of Ideas, Aris¬ 
totle likens to those who, having to enumerate the exact number 
of things, commence by increasing the number, as a way of sim¬ 
plifying the calculation. In this caustic illustration we may see 
the nature of his objection to the Platonic doctrine. What, in¬ 
deed, was the Ideal theory, but a multiplication of the number of 
Existences ? Men had before imagined that things were great, 
and heavy, and black or brown. Plato separated the qualities 
of greatness, weight, and color, and made these qualities new ex¬ 
istences. 

0 

Having disproved the notion of Ideas being Existences,—in 
other words, of General Terms being any thing more than the 
expressions of the Relations of individual things,—Aristotle was 
driven to maintain that the Individual Things alone existed. But, 
if only individuals exist, only by sensation can they be known ; 
and, if we know them by sensation, how is the universal, <ro 
xado'Xou, ever known—how do we get abstract ideas ? This ques¬ 
tion was the more pertinent because science could only be a sci¬ 
ence of the Universal, or, as we moderns say, a science of general 
truths; now inasmuch as Aristotle agreed with Plato in main- 


Aristotle’s method. 


249 


Gaining that sense cannot furnish us with science,* which is always 
founded on general truths (Universals), it was needful for him to 
show how we could gain scientific knowledge. 

Plato’s solution of the problem has already been exhibited; it 
was the ingenious doctrine of the soul’s reminiscence of a former 
apprehension of truth, awakened by those traces of Ideas which 
sensation discovered in Things. This solution did not satisfy 
Aristotle. He, too, was aware that reminiscence was indispensa¬ 
ble ; but by it he meant reminiscence of previous experience, 
not of an anterior state of existence in the world of Ideas. By 
sensation we perceive particular things; by induction we perceive 
the general in the particular. Sensation is the basis of all knowl¬ 
edge : but we have another faculty besides that of sensation ; we 
have Memory. Having perceived many things, we remember 
our sensations, and by that remembrance we are enabled to dis¬ 
cern wherein things resemble and wherein they differ; and this 
Memory then becomes an art whereby a general conception is 
formed: this art is Induction. The natural method of investi¬ 
gation, he says, is to collect all the facts or particulars, and after¬ 
wards deduce from these the general causes of all things and 
their actions.f This is accomplished by Induction, which he 
aptly calls the pathway from particulars to generals —srfayuyrj 
5r) 7} a<ro tgjv xciQixadra erfi <ra xaQ6\ov Man alone has 

this art. The distinction between brutes and men is, that the 
former, although they have Memory, have no Experience ; that 
is to say, have not the art which converts Memory into Experi¬ 
ence—the art of Induction. Man is the reasoning animal. 

That Aristotle meant Induction by the art of which he speaks 
as furnished by experience, may be proved by one luminous 
passage of the Metaphijsics, “Art commences when, from a 
great number of Experiences, one general conception is formed 

* Analyt. Post. i. 31. 

+ Ibid .; comp, also Hist. Animal, i. 6. 

X Topic, i. 10. comp, what Coleridge says on Method as a path of Transit, 
Discourse on Method affixed to Encyclop. MeD'opolitana. 




250 


AIUSTOTLe’s METHOD. 


wliich will embrace all similar cases.* And, lest there should 
be any misunderstanding of his definition, he proceeds to illus¬ 
trate it. “ Thus, if you know that a certain remedy has cured 
Callias of a certain disease, and that the same remedy has pro¬ 
duced the same effect on Socrates, and on several other persons, 
that is Experience ; but to know that a certain remedy will cure 
all persons attacked with that disease is Art: for Experience is 
the knowledge of individual things (rwv xa^xadroi ); Art is that 
of Universals (rwv xadoXou).” 

The commencement of Positive Science—the awakening to an 
appreciation of the nature and processes of Science—lies in that 
passage. In the Socratic conception of Induction we saw little 
more than Analogical Reasoning; but in this Aristotelian con¬ 
ception we see the Collection of Instances, and the generalization 
from those Instances which Science claims as part of its Method. 
Nor was this a random guess of the old Stagirite’s: it was the 
logical deduction from his premises respecting knowledge. Hear 
him again: “ Experience furnishes the principles of every science. 
Thus Astronomy is grounded on observation; for, if we were pro- 
verly to observe the celestial phenomena, we might demonstrate 
the laws which regulate them. The same applies to other sci¬ 
ences. If we omit nothing that observation can afford us respect¬ 
ing phenomena, we could easily furnish the demonstration of all 
that admits of being demonstrated, and illustrate that which is 
not susceptible of demonstration.”! And, in another place, when 
abandoned in his investigation by phenomena, he will not hazard 
an assertion. “ We must wait,” he says, “ for further phenomena, 
since phenomena are more to be trusted than the conclusion of 
reason.” 

Looked at in a general way, the Aristotelian Method seems to 
be the Method of positive Science; but on closer meditation we 
shall detect their germinal difference to be the omission in Aris- 

* Tiverai Tt^vrj orav he tto\\u>v rrji inneiptas ffVorjyaTuiv KaddXov /ila yivrj^al 
ircpl T<Zv bpoiuiv vndXrjipis, Met. i. 1. 

f Analyt. Prior, i. 30. 



Aristotle’s method. 


251 


totle of the principle, so much insisted on in the Introduction to 
this History, namely, the rigorous Verification of each inductive 
step. The value of the truth expressed by a syllogism does not 
consist solely in its accurate distribution, but also in the accuracy 
of its major premise: we may form unexceptionable Syllogisms 
which shall be absurdly erroneous, as when we say, All black 
birds are crows; This bird is black: ergo , This bird is a crow. 
In the physical and metaphysical speculations of the ancients, 
we are constantly meeting with syllogisms as perfect as this,—• 
and as absurd; because the ancients generally threw their in¬ 
genuity into logical deduction, and scarcely ever into preliminary 
verification. When Aristotle therefore lays down as a canon the 
necessity of ascertaining generals from an examination of partic¬ 
ulars, his canon, admirable indeed, needs to be accompanied by 
a distinct recognition of the equal necessity of verification. Con¬ 
trasted with the Platonic Method, Aristotle’s is seen to great ad¬ 
vantage. Plato, believing that the stimulus awakened by a single 
idea would enable a man to arrive at the knowledge of all ideas, 
in consequence of the necessary connection supposed to exist be¬ 
tween them, could very well dispense with Induction. But Aris¬ 
totle maintained that the completeness of knowledge is only ob¬ 
tainable through completeness of experience; every single idea is 
awakened in us by a separate sensation, and only on a compari¬ 
son of like and unlike in phenomena are differences perceived. 
He complains of Plato very justly, for neglecting details in haste 
to judge of universals. 

Aristotle had, therefore, a novel and profound conception of 
scientific Method ; but because he did not—and, indeed, in that 
age could not—confine himself to Experience and the generaliza¬ 
tions of Experience, he could not effectually carry out his own 
scheme. His conception was just; but the application of such a 
Method could have led him only a short way, because there was 
not sufficient Experience then accumulated, from which to gener¬ 
alize with any effect. Hence his speculations are not always 
carried on upon the Method which he himself laid down. Im- 


252 


Aristotle’s logic. 


patient at the insufficiency of facts, he jumps to a conclusion. 
Eager, as all men are, to solve the problems which present them¬ 
selves, he solved them a priori. He applied his syllogism before 
he had verified the exactitude of his premises. 

The distinction between Aristotle and Plato is, that while both 
admitted that science could only be formed from Universals, <ra 
xadoXou, Aristotle contended that such Universals had purely a 
subjective existence, i. e. that they were nothing more than the 
inductions derived from particular facts. He, therefore, made 
Experience the basis of all Science, and Reason the Architect. 
Plato made Reason the basis. The tendency of the one w f as to 
direct man to the observation and interrogation of Nature; that 
of the other was to direct man to the contemplation of Ideas. 

The distinction between Aristotle and Bacon is, that while 
they both insist upon the observation and generalization of facts, 
as alone capable of furnishing correct ideas, Aristotle believed 
that he could observe those primary facts of Existence and Cause, 
which Bacon wisely declared beyond the human ken. While 
both insisted on the necessity of experience, while both saw that 
the science of the “ general” must be framed from the inductions 
of the particular, they differed profoundly as to the nature of that 
“general” Bacon endeavored in particular facts to trace the 
general laws; Aristotle endeavored in particular facts to trace 
the general ideas. 

To understand this, we must cast a glance at Aristotle’s Logic. 

§ III. Aristotle’s Logic. 

It is often remarked, that Aristotle’s use of the "word Dialectics 
differs from Plato’s use of it. Indeed, with Plato, dialectics was 
the science of Being; with Aristotle, it was no more than the in¬ 
strument of Thought. But it is highly necessary that we should 
clearly understand the position occupied by Logic in the Aristo¬ 
telian philosophy; the more so as after-ages prized the Logic 
above all his other works. 

Logic is the science of Affirmation ; Affirmation is the active 


253 


Aristotle’s logic. 

operation of the Mind on that which sensation has presented to 
it; in other words, Affirmation is Thought. Affirmations may 
be true or false : there can be no falsehood in Sensation. If vou 
have a sensation of an object, it must be a true sensation; but 
you may affirm something false of it. Every single thought is 
true, but when you connect two thoughts together, that is, when 
you affirm something of another thing, you may affirm that which 
is false. Every thing, therefore, that you think about may be re¬ 
duced to a Proposition ; in fact, thoughts are a series of Proposi¬ 
tions. To understand the whole nature of Propositions—to un¬ 
derstand the whole Art of Thinking—is the province of Logic. 

By a very natural confusion, Aristotle, thus convinced of the 
importance of language, was led to maintain that truth or false¬ 
hood did not depend upon things, but upon words, or rather up¬ 
on combinations of words—upon Propositions. Logic, therefore, 
to him, as to Plato, though in a different way, became the real 
Organon of Science. But, as John Mill remarks, “the distinc¬ 
tion between real and nominal definitions, between definitions of 
words and what are called definitions of things, though conform¬ 
able to the ideas of most Aristotelian logicians, cannot, as it ap¬ 
pears to us, be maintained. We apprehend that no definition 
is ever intended to explain and unfold the nature of the thing. 
It is some confirmation of our opinion that none of those writers 
who have thought that there were definitions of things have ever 
succeeded in discovering any criterion by which the definition of 
a thing can be distinguished from any other proposition relating 
to that thing. The definition, they say, unfolds the nature of the 
thing: but no definition can unfold its whole nature ; and every 
proposition in which any quality whatever is predicated of the 
thing unfolds some part of its nature. The true state of the case 
we take to be this: All definitions are of names, and of names 
only; but, in some definitions, it is clearly apparent that nothing 
is intended except to explain the meaning of the word ; while, in 
others, besides explaining the meaning of the word, it is intended 

to be implied that there exists a thing corresponding to the 

19 


254 


Aristotle’s logic. 


word. Whether this be or be not implied in any given case, 
cannot be collected from the mere form of expression. ‘ A cen¬ 
taur is an animal with the upper parts of a man and the lower 
parts of a horse,’ and ‘ a triangle is a rectilineal figure with three 
sides,’ are, in form, expressions precisely similar; although, in the 
former, it is not implied that any thing conformable to the term 
really exists, while in the latter it is; as may be seen by substi¬ 
tuting, in both definitions, the word means for is. In the first 
expression, ‘ a centaur means an animal,’ etc., the sense would 
remain unchanged : in the second, ‘ a triangle means,’ etc., the 
meaning would be altered, since it would be obviously impossible 
to deduce any of the truths of geometry from a proposition ex¬ 
pressive only of the manner in which we intend to employ a par¬ 
ticular sign. 

“ There are, therefore, expressions commonly passing for defi¬ 
nitions which include in themselves more than the mere explana¬ 
tion of the meaning of a term. But it is not correct to call an 
expression of this sort a peculiar kind of definition. Its difference 
from the other kind consists in this, that it is not a definition, but 
a definition and something more. The definition given above of 
a triangle, obviously comprises not one, but two propositions, per¬ 
fectly distinguishable. The one is, ‘There may exist a figure 
bounded by three straight lines;’ the other, ‘ and this figure may 
be termed a triangle.’ The former of these propositions is not 
a definition at all; the latter is a mere nominal definition or ex¬ 
planation of the use and application of a term. The first is 
susceptible of truth or falsehood, and may therefore be made 
the foundation of a train of reasoning. The latter can nei¬ 
ther be true nor false; the only character it is susceptible of, is 
that of conformity or disconformity to the ordinary usage of lan¬ 
guage. 

“ There is a real distinction, then, between definitions of names 
and what are erroneously called definitions of things; but it is 
that the latter, along with the meaning of a name, covertly as¬ 
serts a matter of fact. This covert assertion is not a definition, 


t 


akistotle’s logic. 


255 


but a postulate. The definition is a mere identical proposition, 
which gives information only about the use of language, and 
from which no conclusions respecting matters of fact can pos¬ 
sibly be drawn. The accompanying postulate, on the other 
hand, affirms a fact which may lead to consequences of every 
degree of importance. It affirms the real existence of things 
possessing the combination of attributes set forth in the defini¬ 
tion ; and this, if true, may be foundation sufficient to build a 
whole fabric of scientific truth.”* 

This profound and luminous distinction was not seen by 
Aristotle, and his whole system was vitiated in consequence of 
the oversight. He thought that Logic was not only the Instru¬ 
ment of Thought, but, as such, the Instrument of investigating 
Causes. In his Logic the first place was occupied by the cele¬ 
brated Categories. They are ten in number, and are as follow’s: 


Ovffla . Substance. 

Tlotrov . Quantity. 

ITo?ov . Quality. 

Upbsri . Relation. 

IIottTv . Action. 

Uatrxeiv . Passion. 

IIo5 . The where. 

n<5re.. The when. 

K uoOai .. Position in space. 

x«tv. Possession.. 


These Categories, or, as the Latin writers say, Predicaments, 
were intended to be an enumeration of those classes or genera , 
under some of which every thing was to be reduced. They 
were held to be the most universal expressions for the various 
relations of things; they could not further be analyzed, but 
remained the fundamental definitions of things. It is, however, 
as has been remarked,! a mere catalogue of the distinctions 
rudely marked out by the language of familiar life, with little or 
no attempt to penetrate, by philosophic analysis, to the rationale 
eveu of those common distinctions. Such an analysis, howevei 


* System of Logic, i. 195-7. 


f Mill’s System of Logic, i. 60. 













256 


ARISTOTLE^S LOGIC. 


superficially conducted, would have shown the enumeration to 
be both redundant and defective. Some objects are omitted, 
and others repeated several times under different heads. It is 
like a division of animals into men, quadrupeds, horses, asses, 
and ponies. 

The remark is just, and would have been admitted as just by 
Aristotle himself, since he does not pretend the classification is 
complete, but confesses that the same object may, under dif¬ 
ferent categories, be at once a quality and a relation. But Aris¬ 
totle does not usually ascribe much importance to this enumera¬ 
tion of the most general notions; so that we may regard it as 
nothing more than an attempt to exhibit in a clear light the 
signification of words taken absolutely, in order to show how 
truth and falsehood consist in the right or wrong combination of 
these elements.* 

However imperfect this attempt at classification may be, it 
was held to be a satisfactory attempt for many centuries; nor 
was any one bold enough to venture on another until Kant, who, 
as we shall see, had quite a different object. We have not here 
to criticise it, but to exhibit its historical position. The idea of 
examining the forms of thought could scarcely have originated 
earlier. Previous speculators had occupied themselves with in¬ 
quiries into the origin and nature of knowledge: Aristotle saw 
that it was time to inquire into the necessary forms of thought. 
To do this, to analyze the various processes of the mind, and to 
exhibit the “art of thinking” in all its details, is the object of 
his Logic. 

Some had declared sense-knowledge to be deceitful; others 
had declared that sense-knowledge was perfectly faithful, as far 
as it went, but that it was incapable of penetrating beneath 
phenomena. Skepticism was assuming a menacing attitude. 
Aristotle, in his way, endeavored to meet it, and he met it 


* Ritter, iii. 66, where also will be found the authorities for the previous 
sentence. 



Aristotle’s logic. 


257 


thus: It is true that the knowledge derived from our senses is 
not always correct; true also that our senses are to be trusted, 
as far as they go. A sensation, as a sensation, is true ; but any 
affirmation you may make about that sensation may be either 
true or false, according to the affirmation. If an oar dipped in 
the water appears to you to be broken, the sensation you have 
is accurate enough; you have that sensation. But if, on the 
strength of that sensation, you affirm that the oar is broken, your 
affirmation is false. Error lies not in false sensation, but in false 
affirmation. 

Like Plato, he held it to be indispensable to understand words 
if we are to understand thoughts; a position which, as we saw 
in the teaching of Socrates, was both novel and at the time im¬ 
portant, because it called attention to the extreme laxity of lan¬ 
guage under which men disguised the laxity of their reasoning. 
A word, he said, is in itself indifferent; it is neither true nor 
false: truth or falsehood must result from a combination of words 
hi to a proposition. No thought can be erroneous ; error is only 
possible to propositions. 

Hence the necessity of Logic, which is the science of affirma¬ 
tions ; it is in the Enunciate Proposition, dtfocpuvrixos \6yog, that 
we must seek truth or falsehood. This proposition is subdivided 
into Affirmative and Negative Propositions, which are mutually 
opposed, and give rise to Contradiction so soon as they are as¬ 
serted in the same sense of one and the same thing: e. g. “ It 
is impossible for the same thing to be and not to be.” 

The principle of Contradiction he declares to be the deepest 
of all; for on it all Demonstration is founded. Because, how¬ 
ever, he confounded truth of Language with truth of Thought, 
and supposed that Thought was always the correlate of Fact, he 
fell into the mistake of maintaining truth of Language, or Pro¬ 
positions, to be identical with truth of Being. He did not re¬ 
cognize the fact that we can frame Propositions which shall be 
based on the principle of Contradiction, and which shall never¬ 
theless be false. 


258 


akistotle’s logic. 


Having erected Propositions, or the affirmative and negative 
combinations of Language, into such an exalted position, it be¬ 
came necessary to attend more closely to names, and thus we 
get the Predicables, a five-fold division of general Names, not 
grounded, as usual, upon a difference in their meaning, that is, 
in the attribute which they connote, but upon a difference in the 
kind of class which they denote. We may predicate of a thiug 
five different varieties of class-name : 

Tcvos . a Genus. 

EWos. a Species. 

&ia<popd . a Difference 

*i5tov . a Property. 

HvplScpr]K6i . an Accident. 

“ It is to be remarked of these distinctions that they express 
not what the predicate is in its own meaning, but what relation 
it bears to the subject on which it happens on the particular 
occasion to be predicated. There are not some names which are 
exclusively general and others which are exclusively species or 
differentiae ; but the same name is referred to one or another 
Predicable, according to the subject of which it is predicated 
on the particular occasion. Animal , for instance, is a genus 
with respect to Man or John; a species with respect to sub¬ 
stance or Being. The words genus, species, etc., are therefore 
relative terms; they are names applied to certain predicates, to 
express the relation between them and some given subject: a 
relation grounded, not upon what the predicate connotes, but 
upon the class which it denotes, and upon the place which in 
some given classification that class occupies relatively to the par¬ 
ticular subject.”* 

Induction and Syllogism are the two great instruments of his 
Logic. All knowledge must rest upon some antecedent con¬ 
viction ; and both in Induction, and Syllogism we see how this 
takes place. Induction sets out, from particulars already known, 


* Mill, System of Logic , i. 162. 








akistotle’s logic. 


259 


to arrive at a conclusion; Syllogism sets out, from some general 
principle, to arrive at particulars.* There is this remarkable dis¬ 
tinction, however, established by him between the two, namely, 
that the general principle from which the syllogism proceeds is 
better known in itself and in its own nature, while the particulars 
from which Induction proceeds are better known to us.f IIow 
came he by this surprising distinction? Thus: the particulars 
of Induction are derived from Sense, and are more liable on that 
account to error; whereas the general principle of the Syllogism 
is known in itself, is further removed from the fallacies of sense, 
and is xarot <rov Xoyov yvup j/xwrspov. Ho we not always doubt 
whether we have rightly understood any thing until we have 
demonstrated that it follows by necessity from some general 
principle? And does not this lead to the conviction that the 
Syllogism is the proper form of all science ? Moreover, as 
the Syllogism proceeds from the general, the general must 
be better known than the particular, since the particular is 
proved by it. 

Aristotle here lands us on a jagged reef of paradox: that 
which is better known to us is of less value than that which is 
known in itself. Sensations are less trustworthy than ideas. The 
particulars are sensibles, but in and for themselves they are noth¬ 
ing; they exist only in relation to us. Nevertheless we are 
forced to make them our point of departure. We begin with 
sensuous knowledge to reach ideal knowledge. In this manner 
we proceed from the world of experience to that higher world of; 
cognition. 

The various investigations into the nature of Propositions- 
which Aristotle prosecuted, were necessary to form the basis of 
his theory of reasoning, i. e. the Syllogism. He defined the Syl¬ 
logism to be an enunciation in which certain Propositions being 
’aid down, a necessary conclusion is drawn, distinct from the 

* Analyt. Post. i. 1. 

f <Pvcci lily ovv irpbrcpos Kai yvuipipuirepoc h 8ia tov piarov ctiAA oyiapbs, f/plv 
Ivapyiartpoi b rrjs ixayuyTis. — Analyt. Prior, ii. 24. 




260 


ARISTOTLE 8 LOGIC. 

Propositions and without employing any idea not contained in 
the Propositions. Thus: 

All bad men are miserable; 

Every tyrant is a bad man: 
ergo 

All tyrants are miserable. 

His examination of the sixteen forms of the Syllogism exhibits 
great ingenuity, and, as a dialectical exercise, was doubtless suffi¬ 
cient ; but it must not detain ns here. The theory of the Syl¬ 
logism is succeeded by the theory of Demonstration. If all 
knowledge owes its existence to anterior knowledge, what is this 
anterior knowledge? It is the major proposition of a Syllogism. 
The conclusion is but the application of the general to the par¬ 
ticular. Thus, if we know that Tyrants are miserable, we know 
it because we know that All bad men are miserable; and the 
middle term tells us that Tyrants are bad men. To know, is to 
be aware of the cause; to demonstrate, is to give the Syllogism 
which expresses the knowledge we have. It is therefore neces¬ 
sary that every scientific Syllogism should repose upon principles 
that are true, primitive, more evident in themselves than the 
conclusion, and anterior to the conclusion. These undemonstra- 
ble principles are Axioms, Hypotheses, etc., according as they 
are self-evident, or as they presuppose some affirmation or nega¬ 
tion ; they are Definitions when they limit themselves to an ex¬ 
planation of the essence of the thing defined, without affirming 
any thing respecting its existence. 

The proper subjects of demonstration are those universal attri¬ 
butes of particular things which make them what they are, and 
which may be predicated of them. It is one thing to know that 
a thing is so; another thing to know why it is so: hence the 
two orders of demonstrations, the <rou on, “ the demonstration ot 
the cause from a consideration of the effect,” and the <rou Sion, 
“ the demonstration of the effect from the presence of the cause.” 

We close this exposition of the leading points of Aristotle’s 
Logic with his own somewhat touching words, as he concludes 


Aristotle’s metaphysics. 


261 


his work: “We have had no works of predecessors to assist us 
in this attempt to construct a science of Reasoning; our own 
labors have done it all. If, therefore, the work appears to you 
not too inferior to the works on other sciences which have been 
formed with the assistance of successive laborers in the same de¬ 
partment, you will show some indulgence for the imperfections 
of our work, and some gratitude for the discoveries it contains ” 

§ IY. Aristotle’s Metaphysics. 

The problem which the early thiukers had set themselves to 
solve was that of the First Cause. Aristotle maintained that 
there were Four Causes, not one, and each of these must be taken 
into consideration. The four Causes were as follows:—I. The 
Material Cause, the Essence, <ro <n s/vai,—the Invariable Exist¬ 
ence, which philosophers so variously sought. Perhaps “ Es¬ 
sence" is the best translation of the phrase. II. The Substantial 
Cause, utfoxeiixsvov, the “ Substance ” of the Schoolmen. III. The 
Efficient Cause, “ the Principle of Motion.” 

IY The Final Cause, <ro ov evextt xai rayadov, “the Purpose and 
End.” These Causes were all recognized separately by the early 
speculators, but no one had recognized them as connected, and 
as all necessary. 

Aristotle is right in his criticism on his predecessors ; but his 
own theory is extremely vicious. It makes speculation subordi¬ 
nate to logical distinctions; it makes the Categories the great 
instrument of investigation ; and it creates that spirit of useless 
and quibbling distinction which was the characteristic vice of the 
schoolmen, who were almost all fervent Aristotelians. In one 
word, the nearer Aristotle approached to systematic precision, 
the wider he wandered from sound principles of inquiry. And 
this because of his fundamental error in supposing that Logic 
was an Organon, i. e. that subjective distinctions must accord with 
objective distinctions. In consequence of which, instead of inter¬ 
rogating Nature he interrogated his own mind. 

This may seem at variance with his notion of the necessity of 


262 


Aristotle’s metaphysics. 


sense-experience, and at variance with liis Method; but, as we 
before observed, the rigorous application of his Method was bare¬ 
ly possible; and, however excellent as a precept, it was so vague 
as to be almost inevitably vitiated in practice. The process of 
vitiation was this: Experience was necessary, as affording the 
materials for Reason to work with. Any reasoning not founded 
on a knowledge of phenomena must be false ; but here was Aris¬ 
totle’s mistake : it by no means follows, that all reasoning found¬ 
ed on a knowledge of phenomena will be true. He thought that 
Experience could not deceive. But, to make his Method perfect, 
he should have laid down the rules for testing that Experience 
—for “ interrogating” Nature—for discriminating what was per¬ 
tinent to the question in hand—for establishing a proper “ ex- 
;iperimentum cruris.” Thus “ facts,” as they are called, are notori¬ 
ously valuable in proportion only to the value of the verification to 
which they have been submitted. People talk of “ facts” as if 
facts were to produce irresistible convictions; whereas facts are 
susceptible of very various explanations, and, in the history of 
science, we find the facts constant, but the theories changing: 
that is to say, Nature has preserved one uniform course, her ordi¬ 
nary operations are open to all men’s inspection, and men have 
endeavored to explain these operations in an endless variety of 
ways. Now, from a want of a proper knowledge of the condi¬ 
tions of scientific inquiry, Aristotle's Method became fruitless. 
The facts collected were vitiated by a false theory: his sense- 
experience was wrongly interpreted. 

It is time, however, to give his solution of the great metaphy¬ 
sical problem of Existence. Matter, he said, exists in a threefold 
form. It is,—I. Substance, perceptible by the senses, which is 
finite and perishable. This Substance is either the abstract sub¬ 
stance, or the substance connected with form, sldos. II. The 
higher Substance, which, though perceived by the sense, is im¬ 
perishable ; such as are the heavenly bodies. Here the active 
principle (svspysia, actus ) steps in, which, in so far as it contains 
that which is to be produced, is understanding (vofc). That 


Aristotle’s metaphysics. 


263 


which it contains is the purpose (to ou svsx a), which purpose is 
realized in the act. Here we have the two extremes of poten¬ 
tiality and agency, matter and thought. The celebrated ente- 
lechie is the relation between these two extremes, it is the point 
of transition between Sjvayig and ivspyst a, and is accordingly the 
Cause of Motion, or Efficient Cause, and represents the Soul. III. 
The third form of Substance is that in which the three forms of 
Dower, efficient cause, and effect are united: the Absolute Sub¬ 
stance : eternal, unmoved: God himself. God, as the Absolute 
Unmoved Eternal Substance, is Thought. The Universe is a 
thought in the Mind of God; it is “ God passing into activity, 
but not exhausted in the Act.” Existence, then, is Thought: it 
is the activity of the Divine Reason. In Man the thought of the 
Divine Reason completes itself, so as to become self-conscious. 
By it Man recognizes in the objective world his own nature 
again; for thought is the thinking of thought — laViv tj vo^o'jg-, 
vorjrfswj voYirfig. 

If we were occupied in this History with the particular opin¬ 
ions of Philosophers, rather than with their Methods and histori¬ 
cal position in the development of speculation, we should dwell 
at some length on Aristotle’s distinction between the primary 
and secondary qualities of bodies, which, according to Sir Wil¬ 
liam Hamilton, he was the first to establish,* as also on the doc¬ 
trine of Substantial Forms, which Hamilton says he did not 
teach (it was the Arabian commentators who misinterpreted 
Aristotle on this point) ; nor should we omit the claim to the 
discovery of the doctrine of Association of Ideas, which Hamilton 
has set up for him, with a vast array of Aristotelian erudition, 
proving indeed that Aristotle did recognize the facts of Associa¬ 
tion, but by no means proving that he recognized Association as 
the grand law of intellectual action. Our limits forbid such dis¬ 
cursive wanderings from the purpose of this work, and we are 
forced to leave untouched the very points which in our opinion 


* Hamilton’s Reid , p. 826. 



264 


aiiistotle’s metaphysics. 


constitute the pre-eminence of Aristotle. In a history of Science 
greater justice could be done to his encyclopaedic knowledge and 
marvellous power of systematization.* Here we have but to con¬ 
sider him as the philosopher who, resuming in himself all the 
results of ancient speculation, so elaborated them into a co-ordi¬ 
nate system, that for twenty centuries he held the world a slave. 

Plato was a great speculative genius, and a writer unap¬ 
proached in the art of imaginary conversations having a po¬ 
lemical purpose; and in most literary minds he will ever remain 
a greater figure than his pupil, Aristotle. But while I concede 
Plato’s immeasurable superiority as a writer, I conceive his in¬ 
feriority as a thinker to be no less marked. Aristotle seems to 
me to have been the greatest intellect of antiquity, an intellect 
at once comprehensive and subtle, patient, receptive, and original. 
He wrote on Politics, and the treatise, even in the imperfect state 
in which it has reached us, is still in many respects one of the 
best works on the subject. He wrote on Poetry, and the few 
detached passages which survive are full of valuable details. He 
wrote on Natural History, and his observations are still valuable, 
his reflections still suggestive. He wrote on Logic, and for many 
centuries no one could suggest any improvement. “ Aristotle,” 
says Hegel, “ penetrated into the whole universe of things, and 
subjected to the comprehension its scattered wealth; and the 
greatest number of the philosophical sciences owe to him their 
separation and commencement. While in this manner science 
separates itself into a series of definitions, the Aristotelian phi¬ 
losophy at the same time contains the most profound speculative 
ideas. He is more comprehensive and speculative than any one 
else.” While, therefore, the majority will prefer Plato, who, in 
spite of his difficulties, is much easier to read than Aristotle, yet 
all must venerate the latter as a grand intellectual phenomenon, 
to which scarcely any parallel can be suggested. 

* Should I ever be enabled to complete a long projected plan, of writing, 
as a companion to the present work, a Biographical History of Science, I will 
endeavor to present Aristotle in this light. 



Aristotle’s metaphysics. 


265 


His vast learning, his singular acuteness, the wide range of his 
investigations, and the astonishing number and the excellence of 
his works, will always make him a formidable rival to his more 
fascinating master. u A student passing from the works of Plato,” 
it has been well said, u to those of Aristotle, is struck first of all 
with the entire absence of that dramatic form and that dramatic 
feeling with which he has been familiar. The living human 
beings with whom he has conversed have passed away. Protag¬ 
oras, and Prodicus, and Hippias are no longer lounging upon 
their couches in the midst of groups of admiring pupils; we 
have no walks along the walls of the city; no readings beside 
the Ilissus; no lively symposia, giving occasion to high dis¬ 
courses about love; no Critias recalling the stories he had heard 
in the days of his youth, before he became a tyrant of ancient 
and glorious republics; above all, no Socrates forming a centre 
to these various groups, while yet he stands out clear and dis¬ 
tinct in his individual character, showing that the most subtle of 
dialecticians may be the most thoroughly humorous and humane 
of men. Some little sorrow for the loss of those clear and beau¬ 
tiful pictures will perhaps be felt by every one ; but by far the 
greater portion of readers will believe, that they have an ample 
compensation in the precision and philosophical dignity of the 
treatise, for the richness and variety of the dialogue. To hear 
solemn disquisitions solemnly treated; to hear opinions calmly 
discussed without the interruptions of personalities; above all, tc 
have a profound and considerate judge, able and not unwilling 
to pronounce a positive decision upon the evidence before him ; 
this they think a great advantage, and this and far more than 
this they expect, not wrongly, to find in Aristotle.”* 


* Maurice, Moral and Metaphysical Philosophy. 



CHAPTER II. 


SUMMARY OF THE SOCRATIC MO YEMEN T. 

For the sake of historical clearness we may here place a few 
words respecting the position of the Socratic Movement (as we 
may call the period from the Sophists down to Aristotle) in the 
history of Speculation. 

What Socrates himself effected we have already seen. He 
appeared during the reign of utter skepticism. The various 
tentatives of the early thinkers had all ended in a skepticism, 
which was turned to dexterous use by the Sophists. Socrates 
banished this skepticism by the invention of a new Method. He 
withdrew men from the metaphysical speculations about Nature, 
which had led them into the inextricable confusion of doubt. 
He bade them look inward. He created Moral Philosophy. 
The Cyrenaics and the Cynics attempted to carry out this ten¬ 
dency ; but, as they did so in a one-sided manner, their endeavor 
was only partially successful. 

Plato, the youngest and most remarkable of the disciples of 
Socrates, accepted the Method, but applied it more universally. 
Nevertheless Ethics formed the most important of his specula¬ 
tions. Physics were only subordinate and illustrative of Ethics. 
The Truth—the God-like existence—which lie forever besought 
men to contemplate, that they might share it, had always an 
Ethical object: it w r as sought by man for his own perfection. 
How to live in a manner resembling the Gods w r as the funda¬ 
mental problem which he set himself to solve. But there was a 
germ of scientific speculation in his philosophy, and this germ 
was developed by his pupil, Aristotle. 

The difference between Socrates and Aristotle is immense : 
Plato, however, fills up the interval. In Plato, we see the tran- 


SUMMARY OF THE SOCRATIC MOVEMENT. 267 

sition-point of development, both in Method and in Doctrine. 
Metaphysical speculations are intimately connected with those of 
Ethics. In Aristotle, Ethics only form one branch of philosophy: 
Metaphysics and Physics usurp the larger share of his attention. 

One result of Aristotle’s labors was precisely this : he brought 
Philosophy round again to that condition from which Socrates 
bad wrested it; he opened the world again to speculation. 

Was then the advent of Socrates nullified ? No. The Socratic 
Epoch conferred the double benefit on humanity of having first 
brought to light the importance of Ethical Philosophy, and of 
having substituted a new and incomparably better Method for 
that pursued by the early speculators. That Method sufficed for 
several centuries. 

In Aristotle’s systematization of the Socratic Method, and, 
above all, in his bringing Physics and Metaphysics again into 
the region of Inquiry, he paved the way for a new epoch,—the 
epoch of Skepticism ; not the unmethodical Skepticism of help¬ 
less baffled guessers, like that which preceded Socrates, but the 
methodical and dogmatic exposure of the vanity of philosophy. 


EIGHTH EPOCH. 


SECOND CRISIS OP GREEK PHILOSOPHY: THE SKEPTICS, EPI¬ 
CUREANS, STOICS, AND THE NEW ACADEMY. 


CHAPTER I. 

THE SKEPTICS. 

§ I. Pyrrho. 

In the curious train which accompanied the expedition of 
Alexander into India, there was a serious, reflective man, who 
followed him with purely philosophical interest: that man was 
Pyrrho, the founder of the Skeptical philosophy. Conversing 
with the Gymnosophists of India, he must have been struck 
with their devout faith in doctrines so unusual to him; and this 
spectacle of a race of wise and studious men believing a strange 
creed, and acting upon their belief, may have led him to reflect 
on the nature of belief. He had already, by the philosophy of 
Democritus, been led to question the origin of knowledge: he 
had learned to doubt; and now this doubt became irresistible. 

On his return to Elis he became remarked for the practical 
philosophy which he inculcated, and the simplicity of his life. 
The profound and absolute skepticism with which he regarded 
all speculative doctrines, had the same effect upon him as upon 
Socrates: it made him insist wholly on moral doctrines. He 
was resigned and tranquil, accepting life as he found it, and 
guiding himself by the general precepts of common-sense. Soc¬ 
rates, on the contrary, was-dmeasy, restless, perpetually ques- 



THE SKEPTICS. 


260 


tioning himself and others, despising metaphysical speculations, 
but eager for truth. Pyrrho, dissatisfied with all the attempts 
of his predecessors to solve the great problems they had set to 
themselves, declared the problems insoluble. Socrates was also 
dissatisfied; he too declared that he knew nothing; but his 
doubt was an active, eager, questioning doubt, used as a stimulus 
to investigation, not as a final result of all investigation. The 
doubt of Pyrrho was a reprobation of all philosophy; the doubt 
of Socrates was the opening through which a new philosophy 
was to be established. Their lives accorded with their doctrines. 
Pyrrho, the grand Priest of Elis, lived and died in happiness, 
peace, and universal esteem.* Socrates lived in perpetual war¬ 
fare, was always misunderstood, was ridiculed as a sophist, and 
perished as a blasphemer. 

The precise doctrines of Pyrrho it is now hopeless to attempt 
to recover. Even in antiquity they were so mixed up with those 
of his followers, that it was found impossible to separate them. 
We are forced, therefore, to speak of the skeptical doctrines as 
they are collected and systematized by that acute and admirable 
writer, Sextus Empiricus. 

The stronghold of Skepticism is impregnable. It is this: 
There is no Criterium of Truth. After Plato had developed his 
Ideal Theory, Aristotle crushed it by proving it to be purely 
subjective. But then the theory of Demonstration, which Aris¬ 
totle placed in its stead, was not that equally objective ? What 
was this boasted Logic, but the systematic arrangement of Ideas 
obtained originally through Sense ? According to Aristotle, 
knowledge could only be a knowledge of phenomena; although 
he too wished to make out a science of Causes. And what are 
Phenomena ? Phenomena are the Appearances of things. But 
where exists the Criterium of the truth of these Appearances \ 

* All the stories about him which pretend to illustrate the effects of his 
skepticism in real life are too trivial for refutation, being obviously the 
invention of those w r ho thought Pyrrho ought to have been consistent ir. 
absurdity. 


20 



2T0 


THE SKEPTICS. 


How are we to ascertain the exactitude of the accordance ol 
these Appearances with the Things of which they are Appear¬ 
ances ? We know full well that Things appear differently to 
us at different times; appear differently to different individuals ; 
appear differently to different animals. Are any of these Ap¬ 
pearances true ? If so, ivhich are ? and how do you know which 
are true ? 

Moreover, reflect on this: We have five senses, each of which 
reveals to us a different quality in the object. Thus an Apple is 
presented to us: we see it, smell it, feel it, taste it, hear it bit¬ 
ten ; and the sight, smell, feeling, taste, and sound, are five dif¬ 
ferent Appearances—five different Aspects under which we per¬ 
ceive the Tiling. If we had three Senses more, the Tiling would 
have three qualities more; it would present three more Appear¬ 
ances : if we had three Senses less, the Thing would have but 
three qualities less. Are these qualities wholly and entirely de¬ 
pendent upon our Senses , or do they really appertain to the 
Thing ? And do they all appertain to it, or only some of them ? 
The differences of the impressions made on different people seem 
to prove that the qualities of things are dependent on the Senses. 
These differences at any rate show that things do not present 
one uniform series of Appearances. 

All we can say with truth is, that Things appear to us in such 
and such a manner. That we have Sensations is true; but we 
cannot say that our Sensations are true images of the Things. 
That the Apple we have is brilliant, round, odorous, and sweet, 
may be very true, if we mean that it appears such to our senses; 
but, to keener or duller vision, scent, tact, and taste, it may be 
dull, rugged, offensive, and insipid. 

Amidst this confusion of sensuous impressions, Philosophers 
pretend to distinguish the true from the false; they assert that 
Reason is the Criterium of Truth: Reason distinguishes. Plato 
and Aristotle are herein agreed. Very well, reply the Skeptics, 
Reason is your Criterium. But what proof have you that this 
Criterium itself distinguishes truly ? You must not return to 


THE SKEPTICS. 


271 


Sense : that has been already given up; you must rely upou 
Reason ; and we ask you what proof have you that your Reason 
never errs ? what proof have you that it is ever correct ? A Cri- 
terium is wanted for your Criterium; and so on ad infinitum. 

The Skeptics maintain, and justly, that because our knowledge 
is only the knowledge of Phenomena, and not at all of Noumena, 
—because we only know Things as they appear to us, not as 
they really are ,—all attempt to penetrate the mystery of Exist¬ 
ence must be vain ; for the attempt can only be made on appear¬ 
ances. But, although absolute Truth is not attainable by man, 
although there cannot be a science of Being, there can be a 
science of Appearances. The Phenomena, they admit, are true 
as Phenomena. What we have to do is therefore to observe and 
classify Phenomena; to trace in them the resemblances of coex¬ 
istence and succession, to trace the connections of cause and 
effect; and, having done this, we shall have founded a Science 
of Appearances adequate to our wants. 

But the age in which the Skeptics lived was not ripe for such 
a conception: accordingly, having proved the impossibility of a 
science of Being, they supposed that they had established the 
impossibility of all Science, and had destroyed all grounds of 
certitude. It is worthy of remark that modern Skeptics have 
added nothing which is not implied in the principles of the Pyr- 
rhonists. The arguments by which Hume thought he destroyed 
all the grounds of certitude are differently stated from those of 
Pyrrho, but not differently founded; and they may be answered 
in the same way. 

The Skeptics had only a negative doctrine; consequently, only 
a negative influence. They corrected the tendency of the mind 
towards accepting in conclusions as adequate expressions of the 
facts ; they served to moderate the impetuosity of the specula¬ 
tive spirit; they showed that the pretended Philosophy of the 
day was not so firmly fixed as its professors supposed. It is curi¬ 
ous, indeed, to have witnessed the gigantic efforts of a Socrates, 
a Plato, and an Aristotle, towards the reconstruction of Philos- 


272 


THE SKEPTICS. 


ophy, which the Sophists had brought to ruins—a reconstruction, 
too, on different ground—and then to witness the hand of the 
iconoclast smiting down that image, to witness the pitiless logic 
of the Skeptic undermining that laboriously-constructed edifice, 
leaving nothing in its place but another heap of ruins, like that 
from which the edifice was built; for, not only did the Skeptics 
refute the notion that a knowledge of Appearances could ever 
become a knowledge of Existence, not only did they exhibit the 
fallacious nature of sensation, and the want of certitude in the 
affirmations of Reason, they also attacked and destroyed the main 
positions of that Method which was to supply the ground of cer¬ 
titude ; they attacked Induction and Definitions. 

Of Induction, Sextus, in one brief, pregnant chapter, writes 
thus :—“ Induction is the conclusion of the Universal from indi¬ 
vidual things. But this Induction can only be correct in as far 
as all the individual things agree with the Universal. This uni¬ 
versality must therefore be verified before the Induction can be 
made: a single case to the contrary would destroy the truth of 
the Induction.”* 

We will illustrate this by an example. The whiteness of swans 
shall be the Induction. Swans are said to be white because all 
the individual swans we may have seen are white. Here the 
Universal (whiteness) seems induced from the particulars; and it 
is true in as far as all particular swans are white. But there are 
a few black swans; one of these particular black swans is suffi¬ 
cient to destroy the former Induction. If, therefore, says Sextus, 
you are not able to verify the agreement of the universal with 
every particular, i. e. if you are not able to prove that there is no 
swan not black, you are unable to draw a certain and accurate 
Induction. That you cannot make this verification is obvious. 

In the next chapter Sextus examines Definitions. He pro¬ 
nounces them perfectly useless. If we know the thing we define, 


* Pyrrhon. Hypot. vol. ii. c. xv. p. 94. The edition we use is the Paris folio 
of 1621, the first of the Greek text. 



V 


THE SKEPTICS. 


273 


we do not comprehend it because of the definition, but we im¬ 
pose on it the definition because we know it; and if we are 
ignorant of the thing we would define, it is impossible to de* 
fine it. 

Although the Skeptics destroyed the dogmatism of their pre¬ 
decessors, they did not substitute any dogmatism of their own 
in its place. The nature of their skepticism is happily charac¬ 
terized by Sextus in his comparison of them with Democritus 
and Protagoras. Democritus had insisted on the uncertainty of 
sense-knowledge; but he concluded therefrom that objects had 
no qualities at all resembling those known to us through sensa¬ 
tion. The Skeptics contented themselves with pointing out the 
uncertainty, but did not pronounce decisively whether the quali¬ 
ties existed objectively or not. 

Protagoras also insisted on the uncertainty, and declared man 
to be the measure of truth. He supposed that there was a con¬ 
stant relation between the transformations of matter and those of 
sensation; but these suppositions he affirmed dogmatically; to 
the Skeptic they are uncertain. 

This general incertitude often betrayed the Skeptics into ludi¬ 
crous dilemmas, of which many specimens have been preserved. 
Thus they said, “ We assert nothing—no, not even that we assert 

nothin or.” But if the reader wishes to see this distinction be- 
© 

tween a thing seeming and a thing being, ridiculed with a truly 
comic gusto, he should turn to Moliere’s Manage Force , act i. 
sc. 8. Such follies form no portion of our subject, and we leave 
them with some pleasure to direct our attention to more worthy 
efforts of human ingenuity. 


CHAPTER II. 


THE EPICUREANS. 

§ I. Epicurus. 

The Epicureans are condemned in tlieir names. We before 
noticed liow the meaning attached to the name of Sophist inad¬ 
vertently gives a bias to every judgment of the Sophist School, 
and renders it extremely difficult to conceive the members of that 
School otherwise than as shameless rogues. Equally difficult is 
it to shake off the influence of association with respect to the 
Epicureans; although historians are now pretty well agreed in 
believing Epicurus to have been a man of pure and virtuous life, 
and one whose doctrines were moderate and really inculcating 
abstemiousness. 

Epicurus was born 01. 109 (b. c. 342), at Samos, according to 
some; at Gargettus, in the vicinity of Athens, according to 
others. His parents were poor, his father a teacher of grammar. 
At a very early age, he tells us, his philosophical career began : 
so early as his thirteenth year. But we must not misunderstand 
this statement. He dates his career from those first questionings 
which occupy and perplex most young minds, especially those of 
any superior capacity. He doubtless refers to that period when, 
boy-like, he puzzled his teacher with a question beyond that 
teacher’s power. Hearing the verse of Hesiod wherein all things 
are said to arise from Chaos, Epicurus asked, “ And whence came 
Chaos ?” 

“ Whence came Chaos ?” Is not this the sort of question to 
occupy the active mind of a boy ? Is it not by such questions 
that we are all led into philosophy ? To philosophy he was re- 


EPICURUS. 


275 


ferred for an explanation. The writings of Democritus fell in his 
way, and were eagerly studied; the writings of others followed; 
and, his vocation being fixed, he sought instruction from many 
masters. But from all these masters he could gain no solid con¬ 
victions. They gave him hints; they could not give him Truth; 
and working upon the materials they furnished, he produced a 
system of his own, by which we presume he justified his claim 
to being self-taught. 

His early years were agitated and unsettled. He visited 
Athens at eighteen, but remained there only one year. He then 
passed to Colophon, Mitylene, and Lampsacus. He returned to 
Athens in his six-and-thirtieth year, and there opened a school, 
over which he presided till his death, 01. 127 (b. c. 272). 

The place he chose for his school was the famous Garden, a 
spot pleasantly typical of his doctrine. The Platonists had their 
Academic Grove ; the Aristotelians walked along the Lyceum; 
the Cynics growled in the Cynosarges; the Stoics occupied the 
Porch ; aud the Epicureans had their Garden. 

Here, in the tranquil Garden, in the society of his friends, he 
passed a peaceful life of speculation and enjoyment. The friend¬ 
ship which existed amongst them is well known. In a time of 
general scarcity and famine they contributed to each other’s sup¬ 
port, showing that the Pythagorean notion of community of 
goods was unnecessary amongst frieuds, who could confide in 
each other. At the entrance of the Garden they placed this in¬ 
scription : “ The hospitable keeper of this mansion, where you 
will find pleasure the highest good, will present you liberally 
with barley-cakes and water fresh from the spring. The gardens 
will not provoke your appetite by artificial dainties, but satisfy 
it with natural supplies. Will you not be well entertained?” 

The Garden has often been called a sty; and the name of 
Epicurean has become the designation of a sensualist. But, in 
spite of his numerous assailants, the character of Epicurus has 
been rescued from contempt, both by ancient and by modern 
critics. Diogenes Laertius, who gives some of the accusations 

O / o 


270 


THE EPICUREANS. 


in detail, easily refutes them by ail appeal to facts; and the 
modern writers have been at no loss to discover the motive ol 
the ancient calumnies, which mostly proceeded from the Stoics. 
A doctrine like that of Epicurus would, at all times, lend itself 
to gross misrepresentation ; but in an epoch like that in which it 
appeared, and contrasted with a doctrine so fiercely opposed to 
it as the doctrine of the Stoics, we cannot wonder if the bitter¬ 
ness of opposition translated itself into bitter calumny. It is one 
of the commonest results of speculative differences to make us 
attribute to our opponent’s opinions the consequences which we 
deduce from them, as if they were indubitably the consequences 
he deduces for himself. Our opinions are conducive to sound 
morality; of that we are convinced; and being so convinced, it 
is natural for us to believe that contrary opinions must be im¬ 
moral. Our opponent holds contrary, ergo immoral opinions; 
and we proclaim his immorality as an unquestionable fact. In 
this, however, there is a slight forgetfulness, namely, that our 
opponent occupies exactly similar ground, and what we think of 
him, he thinks of us. 

The Stoics had an ineffable contempt for the weakness and 
effeminacy of the Epicureans. The Epicureans had an ineffable 
contempt for the spasmodic rigidity and unnatural exaggeration 
of the Stoics. They libelled each other; but the libels against 
the Epicureans have met with more general credit than those 
against the Stoics, from the more imposing character of the lat¬ 
ter, both in their actions and doctrines. 

Epicurus is said to have been the most voluminous of all Greek 
Philosophers, except Chrysippus; and although none of these 
works are extant, yet so many fragments are preserved here and 
there, and there is such ample testimony as to his opinions, that 
there are few writers of whose doctrine we can speak with greater 
certainty; the more so as it does not in itself present any diffi¬ 
culties of comprehension. 

Nothing can be more unlike Plato and Aristotle than Epicu¬ 
rus ; and this difference may be characterized at the outset by 


EPICURUS. 


277 


their fundamental difference in the conception of Philosophy, 
which Epicurus regarded as the Art of Life, and not the Art of 
Truth. Philosophy, he said, was the power (svs'pysia) by which 
Reason conducted man to happiness. The investigations of Phi¬ 
losophy he despised : they were not only uncertain, but contrib 
uted nothing towards happiness; and of course Logic, the instru¬ 
ment of Philosophy, found no favor in his sight. His system 
was, therefore, only another form of Skepticism, consequent on 
his dissatisfaction with previous systems. Socrates had taught 
men to regard their own nature as the great object of investiga¬ 
tion ; but man does not interrogate his own nature out of simple 
curiosity, or for simple erudition: he studies his nature in order 
that he may improve it; he learns the extent of his capacities in 
order that he may properly direct them. The aim, therefore, of 
all such inquiries must be Happiness. And what constitutes 
Happiness ? Upon this point systems differ : all profess to teach 
the road to Happiness, and all point out divergent roads. There 
can be little dispute as to what is Happiness, but infinite disputes 
as to the way of securing it.* In the Cyrenaic and Cynic 
Schools we saw this question leading to very opposite results; 
and the battle we are now to see renewed on similar ground be¬ 
tween the Epicureans and the Stoics. 

Epicurus, like Aristippus, declared that Pleasure constituted 
Happiness; all animals instinctively pursue it, and as instinc¬ 
tively avoid Pain. Man should do deliberately that which ani¬ 
mals do instinctively. Ev?ry Pleasure is in itself good; but, in 
comparison with another, it may become an evil. The Philoso¬ 
pher differs from the common man in this: That while they 
both seek Pleasure, the former knows how to forego certain en¬ 
joyments which will cause pain and vexation hereafter; whereas, 
the common man seeks only the immediate enjoyment. The 


* At a meeting of Socialists in London, to discuss in a friendly way the 
means of reforming the world, M. Pierre Leroux rose and addressed his 
brethren thus: “Nous voulons arriver au Paradis , n’ est-ce pas? n' est-c4 
pas ? Eh lien ! il ne s'agit que d’y arriver ! Voila /” 



278 


THE EPICUREANS. 


Philosopher’s art enables him to foresee what will be the result 
of his acts; and, so foreseeing, he will not only avoid those en¬ 
joyments which occasion grief, but know how to endure those 
pains from which surpassing pleasure will result. 

True happiness, then, is not the enjoyment of the moment, 
but the enjoyment of the whole life. We must not seek to in¬ 
tensify, but to equalize; not debauchery to-day and satiety to¬ 
morrow, but equable enjoyment all the year round. No life can 
be pleasant except a virtuous life ; and the pleasures of the body, 
although not to be despised, are insignificant when compared 
with those of the soul. The former are but momentary; the 
latter embrace both the past and future. Hence the golden rule 
of Temperance. Epicurus not only insisted on the necessity 
of moderation for continued enjoyment, he also slighted, and 
somewhat scorned, all exquisite indulgences. He fed moderately 
and plainly. Without interdicting luxuries, he saw that Pleasure 
was purer and more enduring if luxuries were dispensed with. 
This is the ground upon which Cynics and Stoics built their 
own exaggerated systems. They also saw that simplicity was 
preferable to luxury; but they pushed their notion too far. Con¬ 
tentedness with a little, Epicurus regarded as a great good; and 
he said, wealth consisted not in having great possessions, but in 
having small wants. He did not limit man to the fewest possi¬ 
ble enjoyments: on the contrary, he wished him in all ways to 
multiply them ; but he wished him to be able to live upon little, 
both as a preventive against ill fortune, and as an enhancement 
of rare enjoyments. The man who lives plainly has no fear ol 
poverty, and is better able to enjoy exquisite pleasures. 

Virtue rests upon Free Will and Reason, which are insepara¬ 
ble : since, without Free Will our Reason would be passive, and 
without Reason our Free Will would be blind. Every thing, 
therefore, in human actions which is virtuous or vicious depends 
on man’s knowing and willing. Philosophical education consists 
in accustoming the Mind to judge accuratety, and the Will to 
choose manfully. 


EPICURUS. 


279 


From this slight outline of his Ethical doctrine may be seen 
how readily it furnished arguments both to assailants and to de¬ 
fenders. We may also notice its vagueness and elasticity, which 
would enable many minds to adapt it to their virtues or to their 
vices. The luxurious would see in it only an exhortation to their 
own vices; the temperate would see in it a scientific exposition of 
temperance. 

Epicureanism, in leading man to a correct appreciation of the 
moral end of his existence, in showing him how to be truly happy, 
has to combat with many obstructions which hide from him the 
real road of life. These obstructions are his illusions, his preju¬ 
dices, his errors, his ignorance. This ignorance is of two kinds : 
first, ignorance of the laws of the external world, which creates 
absurd superstitions, and troubles the soul with false fears and 
false hopes; hence the necessity of some knowledge of Physics. 
The second kind of ignorance is that of the nature of man ; 
hence the necessity of the Epicurean Logic called Canonic, which 
is a collection of rules respecting human reason and its applica¬ 
tion. 

The Epicurean psychology and physics were derived from the 
Democritean. The atoms of which the universe is formed are 
supposed to be constantly throwing off some of their parts, 
d- 7roppoa»: and these, in contact with the senses, produce sensa¬ 
tion, aitfQritfiS' But Epicurus did not maintain that these diroppoal 
were images of the atoms; he believed them to have a certain 
resemblance to their atoms, but was unable to point out where, 
and in how far this resemblance exists. Every sensation must 
be true as a sensation; and, as such, it can neither be proved nor 
contradicted; it is dXoyos. The sensations of the insane and 
the dreaming are also true; and, although there is a difference 
between their sensations and those of sane and waking men, yet 
Epicurus confessed himself unable to determine in what the dif¬ 
ference consists. Sensations, however, do not alone constitute 
knowledge; man has also the faculty of conception, ^poX^-bi^, 
which arises from the repeated iteration of sensation : it is recol- 


280 


THE EPICUREANS. 


lection of various sensations; or, as Aristotle would say, the gen¬ 
eral idea gathered from particular sensations. It is from these 
conceptions that the general ideas, £6gai, are formed, and it is in 
these general ideas that error resides. A sensation may be con¬ 
sidered either in relation to its object or in relation to him who 
experiences it; in the latter case it is agreeable or disagreeable, 
and renders the sentiments, <ra iradr], the basis of all morality. 

With such a basis, we may readily anticipate the nature of 
the superstructure. If agreeable and disagreeable sensations are 
the origin of all moral phenomena, there can be no other moral 
rule than to seek the agreeable and to avoid the disagreeable; 
and whatever is pleasant becomes the great object of existence. 

The Physics of Epicurus are so similar to the Ph^ics of De¬ 
mocritus that we need not occupy our space with them.* 

On reviewing the whole doctrine of Epicurus, we find in it 
that skepticism which the imperfect Philosophy of the day ne¬ 
cessarily brought to many minds, in many different shapes; and 
the consequence of that skepticism was the effort to find a refuge 
in Morals, and the attempt to construct Ethics on a philosophic 
basis. The attempt failed because the basis was not broad enough; 
but the attempt itself is worthy of notice, as characteristic of the 
whole Socratic movement; for, although the Socratic Method was 
an attempt at reconstructing Philosophy, yet that reconstruction 
itself was only attempted with a view to morals. Socrates was 
the first to bring Philosophy down from the clouds; he was the 
first to make it the basis of Morality, and in one shape or other 
all his followers and all the schools that issued from them, kept 
this view present to their minds. The Epicureans are therefore 
to be regarded as men who ventured on a solution of the great 
problem, and failed because they only saw a part of the truth. 


* They are expounded by Lucretius, who claims a rebellious originality 
for Epicurus which history cannot endorse. I. 67, sqq. 



CHAPTER III. 


THE STOICS. 

§ I. Zeno. 

The Stoics were a large sect, and of its members so many have 
been celebrated, that a separate work would be needed to chron¬ 
icle them all. From Zeno, the founder, down to Brutus and 
Marcus Antoninus, the sect embraces many Greek and Roman 
worthies, and not a few solemn mountebanks. Some of these we 
would willingly introduce; but we are forced to confine ourselves 
to one type, and the one we select is Zeno. 

He was born at Citium, a small city in the island of Cyprus, 
of Phoenician origin, but inhabited by Greeks. The date of his 
birth is uncertain. His father was a merchant, in which trade 
he himself engaged, until his father, after a voyage to Athens, 
brought home some works of Socratic Philosophers; these Zeno 
studied with eagerness and rapture, and determined his vocation. 

When about thirty, he undertook a voyage, both of interest 
and pleasure, to Athens, the great mart both for trade and phi¬ 
losophy. Shipwrecked on the coast, he lost the whole of his 
valuable cargo of Phoenician purple; and, thus reduced to pov¬ 
erty, he willingly embraced the doctrine of the Cynics, whose 
ostentatious display of poverty had captivated many minds. 

There is an anecdote of his having one day read Xenophon’s 
Memorabilia , in a bookseller’s shop, with such delight that he 
asked where such men were to be met with. At that moment 
Crates the Cynic passed by: the bookseller pointed him out to 
Zeno, and bade him follow Crates. He did so; and he became 
a disciple. But he could not long remain a disciple. The gross 


THE STOICS. 


282 

manners of the C)Tiics, so far removed from true simplicity, and 
their speculative incapacity, soon caused him to seek a master 
elsewhere. Stilpo, of Megara, became his next instructor; and 
from him he learned the art of disputation, which he subsequent 
ly practised with such success. 

But the Megaric doctrine was too meagre for him. He was 
glad to learn from Stilpo; but there were things which Stilpo 
could not teach. He turned, therefore, to the expositors of Pla¬ 
to—Xenocrates and Polemo. In the philosophy of Plato there 
is, as before remarked, a germ of Stoicism; but there is also 
much that contradicts Stoicism, and so, we presume, Zeno grew 
discontented with that also. 

After twenty years of laborious study in these various schools, 
he opened one for himself, wherein to teach the result of all 
these inquiries. The spot chosen w r as the Stoa, or Porch, which 
had once been the resort of the Poets, and was decorated with 
the pictures of Polygnotus. From this Stoa the school derived 
its name. 

As a man, Zeno appears deserving of the highest respect. 
Although sharing the doctrines of the Cynics, he did not share 
their grossness, their insolence, or their affectation. In person he 
was tall and slender; and although of a weakly constitution, he 
lived to a great age, being rigidly abstemious, feeding mainly 
upon figs, bread, and honey. His brow was furrowed with 
thought; and this gave a tinge of severity to his aspect, which 
accorded with the austerity of his doctrines. So honored and 
respected was he by the Athenians, that they intrusted to him 
the keys of the citadel; and when he died they erected to his 
memory a statue of brass. His death is thus recorded :—In his 
ninety-eighth year, as he was stepping out of his school, he fell 
and broke his finger. He was so affected at the consciousness of 
his infirmity, that, striking the earth, he exclaimed, “Why am I 
thus importuned ? Earth, I obey thy summons !” He went home 
and strangled himself. 

In the history of humanity there are periods when society 


ZENO. 


283 


seems fast dissolving; when ancient creeds have lost their ma¬ 
jesty, and new creeds want disciples; when the onlooker sees the 
fabric tottering, beneath which his fellow-men are crowded either 
in sullen despair or in blaspheming levity, and, seeing this, he 
feels that there is safety still possible, if men will but be bold; 
he raises a voice of warning, and a voice of exhortation; he 
bids them behold their peril and tremble, behold their salvation 
and resolve. He preaches to them a doctrine they have been 
unused to hear, or, hearing it, unused to heed; and by the 
mere force of his own intense conviction he gathers round him 
some believers who are saved. If the social anarchy be not too 
widely spread, he saves his country by directing its energies 
in a new channel; if the country’s doom is scaled, he makes a 
gallant effort, though a vain one, and “ leaves a spotless name to 
after-times.” 

Such a man was Zeno. Greece was fallen; but hope still re¬ 
mained. A wide-spread disease was fast eating out the vigor 
of its life: Skepticism, Indifference, Sensuality, Epicurean soft¬ 
ness were only counteracted by the magnificent but vague works 
of Plato, or the vast but abstruse system of Aristotle. Greek 
civilization was fast falling to decay. A little time, and Rome, 
the she-wolfs nursling, would usurp the place which Greece had 
once so proudly held—the place of vanguard of European civiliza¬ 
tion. Rome, the mighty, would take from the feeble hands of 
Greece the trust she was no longer worthy to hold. There was 
a presentiment of Rome in Zeno’s breast. In him the manly 
energy and stern simplicity which were to conquer the world; 
in him the deep reverence for moral w^ortli, which w r as the glory 
of Rome, before, intoxicated with success, she sought to ape the 
literary and philosophical glory of old Hellas. Zeno the Stoic 
had a Roman spirit; and this is the reason why so many noble 
Romans became his disciples: he had deciphered the wants of 
their spiritual nature. 

Alarmed at the skepticism which seemed inevitably following 
speculations of a metaphysical kind, Zeno, like Epicurus, fixed 


THE STOICS. 


284 : 

bis thoughts principally upon Morals. His philosophy boasted 
of being eminently practical, and connected, with the daily prac¬ 
tices of life. But, for this purpose, the philosopher must not 
regard pleasure so much as Virtue: nor does Virtue consist in a 
life of contemplation and speculation, but in a life of activity; 
for what is Virtue?—Virtue is manhood. And what are the 
attributes of Man ? Are they not obviously the attributes of an 
active as well as of a speculative beiug ? and can that be Virtue 
which excludes or neglects man’s activity ? Man, 0 Plato, and 
O Aristotle, was not made for speculation only; wisdom is not 
his only pursuit. Man, 0 Epicurus, was not made for enjoyment 
only; he was made also to do somewhat, and to be somewhat. 
Philosophy ?—It is a great thing; but it is not all. Pleasure ? 
—It is a slight thing; and, were it greater, could not embrace 
men’s entire activity. 

The aim, then, of man’s existence is neither to be wise nor to 
enjoy, but to be virtuous—to realize his manhood. To this aim, 
Philosophy is a means, and Pleasure may also be one; but they 
are both subordinate. Before we can be taught to lead a vir¬ 
tuous life, we must be taught what Virtue is. Zeno thought, 
with Socrates, that Virtue w T as the knowledge of Good ; and that 
Vice was nothing but error. If to know the good were tanta¬ 
mount to the pursuit and practice of it, then was the teacher’s 
task easily defined : he had to explain the nature of human 
knowledge, and to explain the relations of man to the universe. 

Thus, as with Socrates, does Morality find itself inseparably 
connected with Philosophy; and more especially with psychol¬ 
ogy. A brief outline of this psychology becomes, therefore, 
necessary as an introduction to the Stoical Morality. 

Zeno utterly rejected the Platonic theory of knowledge, and 
accepted, though with some modifications, the Aristotelian theory. 
‘‘Reminiscence” and “Ideas” were to him mere words. Ideas 
he regarded as the universal notions formed by the mind from a 
comparison of particulars. Sense furnished all the materials oi 
knowledge; Reason was the plastic instrument whereby these 


ZENO. 


285 


materials were fashioned. But those who maintain that Sense 
furnishes us the materials of knowledge are hampered with this 
difficulty: By what process does Sense perceive ? What rela¬ 
tion is there between Sense and the sensible Thing? What 
proof have we of those sensations being conformable with the 
Things ? This difficulty is a serious one, and early occupied 
speculators. Indeed, this question may be pronounced the vital 
question of all philosophy; upon its solution depends, to a great 
extent, the solution of all other questions. Let us state it more 
clearly in an illustration. 

At the distance of fifty yards you descry a tower; it is round. 
What do you mean by saying, It is round ? You mean that the 
impression made upon your sense of sight is an impression sim¬ 
ilar to that made by some other objects, such as trees, which 
you, and all men, call round. Now, on the supposition that you 
never approached nearer that tower, you would always believe it 
to be round, because it appeared so. But, as you are enabled to 
approach it, and as you then find that the tower is square, and 
not round, you begin to examine into this difference. It appeared 
round at that distance; and yet you say it really is square. A 
little knowledge of optics seems to explain the difference; but 
does not. At fifty yards, you say, it appears round; but it really 
is square. At fifty yards, we reply, it appears round, aud at one 
yard it appears square : it is neither : both round and square are 
conceptions of the mind, not attributes of things: they have a 
subjective, not an objective existence. 

Thus far the ancient skeptics penetrated; but, seeing herein 
an utter destruction of all certainty in sense-knowledge, aud com¬ 
pelled to admit that Sense was the only source of knowledge, 
they declared all knowledge a deceit. The perception of the 
real issue whence to escape this dilemma—the recognition of the 
uncertainty of sense-knowledge, and the reconciliation of that 
theory with the natural wants of the speculative mind—recon¬ 
ciling skepticism with belief, and both with reason, was the work 
of after-times. 

21 


286 


THE STOICS. 


Those who believed that the senses gave true reports of the 
Things which affected them, were driven to invent some hypoth¬ 
esis explanatory of the relation subsisting between the object and 
the Subject, the Thing and the Sense. We have seen how eidola , 
airy Images affluent from Things, were invented to choke up the 
gap, and to establish a direct connection between the Subject 
and the Object. Zeno, acutely enough, saw that an Image de¬ 
taching itself in an airy form from the Object, could only repre¬ 
sent the superficies of that Object, even if it represented it cor¬ 
rectly. In this way the hypothesis of eidola was shown to be 
no more than an hypothesis to explain Appearances; whereas 
the real question is not, How do we perceive Appearances ? but 
how do we perceive Objects ? If w r e only perceive their super¬ 
ficies, our knowledge is only a knowledge of phenomena, and we 
fall into the hands of the Skeptics. 

Zeno saw the extent of the difficulty, and tried to obviate it. 
But his hypothesis, though more comprehensive, was as com¬ 
pletely without foundation. He assumed that Sense could pene¬ 
trate beneath Appearance, and perceive Substance itself. 

As considerable confusion exists on this point, we shall con¬ 
fine ourselves to the testimony of Sextus Empiricus, the most 
satisfactory of all. In his book directed against the Logicians, 
he tells us, “ the Stoics held that there was one criterium of truth 
for man, and it was what they called the Cataleptic Phantasm ” 
(rrj\/ xaraXyj<pav-rao'i'av, i. e. the Sensuous Apprehension). 
We must first understand what they meant by the Phantasm 
or Appearance. It was, they said, an impression on the mind 
(rvtfutfis ev ^XV)- But ^’ om this point commence their differ¬ 
ences ; for Cleantkus understood, by this impression, an impres¬ 
sion similar to that made by the signet-ring upon wax, <rou x^jpou 
‘rutfwtfiv. Chrysippus thought this absurd; for, said he, seeing 
that thought conceives many objects at the same time, the soul 
must upon that hypothesis receive many impressions of figures. 
He thought that Zeno meant by impression nothing more than a 
modification (kspoiuc'ig) : likening the soul to the air, which 


ZENO. 


287 


when many voices sound simultaneously, receives simultaneously 
the various alterations, but without confounding them. Thus 
the Soul unites several perceptions which correspond with then- 
several objects. 

This is extremely ingenious, and the indication of Sensation 
as a modification of the Soul, opens a shaft deep down into the 
dark region of psychology. But, if it lets in some of the light 
of day, it also brings into notice a new obstacle. This soul, 
which is modified, does it not also in its turn exercise an in¬ 
fluence ? If wine be poured into water, it modifies the water; 
but the water also modifies the wine. There can be no action 
without reaction. If a stone is presented to my sight, it modi¬ 
fies my soul; but does the stone remain unmodified ?—No ; it 
receives from me certain attributes, certain form, color, taste, 
weight, etc., which my soul bestows on it, which it does not 
possess in itself. 

Thus is doubt again spread over the whole question. The soul 
modifying the object in sensation , can it rely upon the truth of 
the sensation thus produced ? Has not the wine become watery, 
no less than the water vinous ? These consequences, however, 
Zeno did not foresee. lie w 7 as intent upon proving that the soul 
really apprehended objects, not as eidola , not as the wax receives 
the impression of a seal, but in absolute truth. Let us continue 
to borrow from Sextus Empiricus. 

The Phantasm, or Appearance, which causes that Modification 
of the Soul which we name Sensation, is also understood by the 
Stoics as w r e understand ideas; and in this general sense, they 
said that there were three kinds of Phantasms: those that were 
probable, those that were improbable, and those that were 
neither one nor the other. The first are those that cause a slight 
and equable motion in the soul: such as those which inform us 
that it is day. The second are those which contradict our reason: 
such as if one w r ere to say during the day-time, “ Now the sun is 
not above the earthor, during the night-time, “Now it is day.” 
The third are those, the truth of wdiich it is impossible to verify; 


288 


THE STOICS. 


such as this, “The number of the stars is evenor, “the number 
is odd.” 

Phantasms, when probable, are true or false, or both true and 
false at the same time, or neither true nor false. They are true 
when they can be truly affirmed of any thing ; false if they are 
wrongly affirmed, such as when one believes an oar dipped in the 
water to be broken, because it appears so. When Orestes, in his 
madness, mistook Electra for a Fury, he had a Phantasm both 
true and false: true, inasmuch as he saw something, viz., Elec¬ 
tra; false, inasmuch as Electra was not a Fury. 

Of true Phantasms, some are cataleptic (apprehensive), and 
others non-cataleptic. The latter are such as arise from disease 
or perturbation of the mind: as, for instance, the innumerable 
Phantasms produced in frenzy and hypochondria. The catalep¬ 
tic Phantasm is that which is impressed by an object which ex¬ 
ists, which is a copy of that object, and can be produced by no 
other object. Perception is elsewhere said to be a sort of light, 
which manifests itself at the same time that it lights up the ob¬ 
ject from which it is derived. 

Zeno distinctly saw the weakness of the theories proposed by 
others; he failed however in establishing any better theory in 
their place. Sextus Empiricus may well call the Stoical doctrine 
vague and undecided. How are we to distinguish the true from 
the false in appearances ? Above all, how are we to learn whether 
an impression exactly coincides with the object ? This is the 
main problem, and Zeno pretends to solve it by a circular argu¬ 
ment. Thus: given the problem, how are we to distinguish the 
true impressions from the false impressions ? The solution offered 
is, by ascertaining which of the impressions coincide with the 
real objects: in other words, by distinguishing the true impres¬ 
sions from the false. 

Let us continue the exposition:—Having a perception of an 
object is not knowledge: for knowledge, it is necessary that 
reason should assent. Perception comes from without; assent 
from within: it is the free exercise of man’s reason. Science is 


ZENO. 


289 


composed of perceptions so solidly established that no argumen¬ 
tation can shake them. Perceptions not thus established only 
constitute Opinion. 

This is making short work with difficulties, it must be con¬ 
fessed ; but the Stoics were eager to oppose something against 
the Skepticism which characterized the age; and, in their eager¬ 
ness to build, they did not sufficiently secure their foundations. 
Universal doubt they felt to be impossible. Man must occa¬ 
sionally assent, and that too in a constant and absolute manner. 
There are perceptions which carry with them irresistible convic¬ 
tion. There would be no possibility of action unless there were 
some certain truth. Where then is conviction to stop ? That 
all our perceptions are not correct, every one is willing to admit. 
But which are exact, and which are inexact? What criterium 
have we? The criterium we possess is Evidence. “Nothing 
can be clearer than evidence,” they said; “ and, being so clear, 
it needs no definition ” This was precisely what it did want; 
but the Stoics could not give it. 

In truth, the Stoics, combating the Skepticism of their age, 
were reduced to the same strait as Reid, Beattie, and Hutcheson, 
combating the Skepticism of Hume: reduced to give up Philos¬ 
ophy, and to find refuge in Common-Sense. The battle fought 
by the Stoics is very analogous to the battle fought by the 
Scotch philosophers, in the ground occupied, in the instruments 
employed, in the enemy attacked, and the object to be gained. 
They both fought for Morality, which they thought endangered. 

We shall subsequently have to consider the Common-Sense 
theory: enough if we now call attention to the curious ignoratio 
elenchi —the curious misconception of the real force of the enemy, 
and the utter helplessness of their own position, which the Com¬ 
mon-Sense philosophers displayed. The Skeptics had made an 
irresistible onslaught upon the two fortresses of philosophy, Per¬ 
ception and Reason. They showed Perception to be based upon 
Appearance, and Appearance to be only Appearance, but not 
Certainty. They showed also that Reason was unable to dis- 


290 


THE STOICS. 


tinguish between Appearance and Certainty, because, in the first 
place, it had nothing but Phenomena (Appearances) to build 
upon ; and, in the second place, because there is no criterium to 
apply to Reason itself. Having gained this victory, they pro¬ 
claimed Philosophy no longer existent. Whereupon the Stoics 
valorously rise, and, taking their stand upon Common-Sense, be¬ 
lieve they rout the forces of the Skeptics; believe they retake 
the lost fortresses by declaring that Perceptions are true as well 
as false, and that you may distinguish the true from the false, 
by—distinguishing them: and that Reason has its criterium in 
Evidence, which requires no criterium, it is so clear. This seems 
to us pretty much the same as if the French were to invade 
Great Britain, possess themselves of London, Edinburgh, and 
Dublin, declare England the subject of France, and patriots were 
then to declare that the French w T ere to be driven home attain 
by a party of volunteers taking their stand upon Hampstead 
Heath, displaying the banners of England, and with loud alarums 
proclaiming the invaders defeated. 

But it is time to consider the Ethical doctrines of the Stoics; 
and to do this effectually we must glance at their conception of 
the Deity. There are two elements in Nature. The first is vXyj 
rfpurrj, or primordial matter; the passive element from which 
things are formed. The second is the active element, which 
forms things out of matter: Reason, Destiny (si/xappivTj), God. 
The divine Reason operating upon matter bestows upon it the 
laws which govern it, laws which the Stoics called Xoyoi cVsp- 
fxocnxoj, or productive causes. God is the Reason of the world. 

W ith this speculative doctrine it is easy to connect their prac¬ 
tical doctrine. Their Ethics are easily to be deduced from their 
theology. If Reason is the great creative law, to live conform¬ 
ably with Reason must be the practical moral law. If the uni¬ 
verse be subject to a general law, every part of that universe 
must also be duly subordinate to it. The consequence is clear: 
there is but one formula for Morals, and that is, “ Live harmo¬ 
niously with Nature,” ogoXoyo [xs'vug qputfsi %m. 


ZENO. 


291 


This is easily said. An anxious disciple might however desire 
greater precision, and ask, Is it universal nature, or is it the par¬ 
ticular nature of man, that I am to live in unison with ? Cle- 
anthes taught the former; Chrysippus the latter; or, we should 
rather say, taught that both individual and universal nature 
should be understood by the formula. And this appears to have 
been the sense in which it was usually interpreted. 

The distinctive tendency of the formula cannot be mistaken: 
it is to reduce every thing to Reason, which, as it has supremacy 
in creation, must also have supremacy in man. This is also the 
Platonic conception. It makes Logic the rule of life; and as¬ 
sumes that there is nothing in man’s mind which cannot be 
reduced within the limits of Logic; assumes that man is all in¬ 
tellect. It follows, that every thing which interferes with a 
purely intellectual existence is to be eliminated as dangerous. 
The pleasures and the pains of the body are to be despised: only 
the pleasures and the pains of the intellect are worthy to occupy 
man. By his passions he is made a slave; by his intellect he is 
free. His senses are passive; his intellect is active. It is his 
duty therefore to surmount and despise his passions and his 
senses, that he may be free, active, virtuous. 

We have here the doctrine of the Cynics, somewhat purified, 
but fundamentally the same; we have here also the anticipation 
of Rome; the forethought of that which was subsequently real¬ 
ized in act. Rome was the fit theatre of Stoicism, because Rome 
was peopled with soldiers: these soldiers had their contempt of 
death formed in perpetual campaigns. How little the Romans 
regarded the life of man their history shows. The gladiatorial 
combats, brutal and relentless, must have hardened the minds of 
all spectators; and there w r ere no softening influences to counter¬ 
act them. How different the Greeks! They did not pretend to 
despise this beautiful life; they did not affect to be above hu¬ 
manity. Life was precious, and they treasured it: treasured it 
not with petty fear, but with noble ingenuousness. They loved 
life, and wept on quitting it; and they wept without shame. 


292 


THE STOICS. 


They loved life, and they said so. When the time came foi 
them to risk it, or to give it for their country, or their honor,— 
when something they prized higher was to be gained by the sac¬ 
rifice,—then they died unflinchingly. The tears shed by Achilles 
and Ulysses did not unman them: these heroes fought terribly, 
as they loved tenderly. Philoetetes, in agony, howls like a wild 
beast, because he feels pain, and feels no shame in expressing it. 
But these shrieks have not softened him: he is still the same 
stern, terrible, implacable Philoetetes. 

The Stoics, in their dread of becoming effeminate, became mar¬ 
ble. They despised pain; they despised death. To be above 
pain was thought manly. They did not see, that, in this respect, 
instead of being above Humanity, they sank miserably below it. 
If it is a condition of our human organization to be susceptible 
of pain, it is only affectation to conceal the expression of that 
pain. Could silence stifle pain, it were well; but to stifle the 
cry, is not to stifle the feeling; and to have a feeling, yet affect 
not to have it, is pitiful. The Savage soon learns that philosophy; 
but the civilized man is superior to it. You receive a blow, and 
you do not wince ? so much of heroism is displayed by a stone. 
You are face to face with Death, and you have no regrets? then 
you are unworthy of life. Pteal heroism feels the pain it con¬ 
quers, and loves the life it surrenders in a noble cause. 

As a reaction against effeminacy, Stoicism may be applauded; 
as a doctrine it is one-sided. It ends in apathy and egoism. 
Apathy, indeed, was considered by the Stoics as the highest con¬ 
dition of humanity; whereas, in truth, it is the lowest. 


CHAPTER IV. 


THE NEW ACADEMY. 

§ I. Arcesilaus and Carneades. 

The New Academy would solicit our attention, were it only 
for the celebrity bestowed on it by Cicero and Horace; but it 
has other and higher points of interest than those of literary cu¬ 
riosity. The combat of which it was the theatre was, and is, of 
singular importance. The questions connected with it are those 
vital questions respecting the origin and certitude of human knowl¬ 
edge, which so long have occupied the ingenuity of thinkers; 
and the consequences which flow from either solution of the prob¬ 
lem are of the utmost importance. 

The Stoics endeavored to establish the certitude of human 
knowledge, in order that they might establish the truth of mor¬ 
al principles. They attacked the doctrines of the Skeptics, and 
believed they triumphed by bringing forward their own doctrine 
of Common-Sense. But the New Academicians had other argu¬ 
ments to offer. They too were Skeptics, although their skepti¬ 
cism differed from that of the Pyrrhonists. The nature of this 
difference Sextus Empiricus has noted. “ Many persons,” says he, 
“ confound the Philosophy of the Academy with that of the Skep¬ 
tics. But although the disciples of the New Academy declare 
that all things are incomprehensible; yet they are distinguished 
from the Pyrrhonists in this very dogmatism: they affirm that 
all things are incomprehensible—the Skeptics do not affirm that. 
Moreover, the Skeptics consider all perceptions perfectly equal as 
to the faithfulness of their testimony; the Academicians distin¬ 
guish between probable and improbable perceptions: the first 


29-1 


THE NEW ACADEMY. 


they class under various heads. There are some, they say, which 
are merely probable, others which are also confirmed by reflec¬ 
tion, others which are subject to no doubt. Assent is of two 
kinds: simple assent, which the mind yields without repugnance 
as without desire, such as that of a child following its master; 
and the assent which follows upon conviction and reflection. The 
Skeptics admitted the former kind; the Academicians the latter.” 

These differences are of no great moment; but in the history 
of sects we find the smallest variation invested with a decree ot 
importance; and we can understand the pertinacity with which 
the Academicians distinguished themselves from the Skeptics, 
even on such slight grounds as the above. 

In treating of the Academicians we are forced to follow the 
plan pursued with the Skeptics, namely to consider the doctrines 
of the whole sect, rather than to particularize the share of each 
individual member. The Middle Academy and the New Aca¬ 
demy we thus unite in one; although the ancients drew a dis¬ 
tinction between them, it is difficult for moderns to do so. 
Arcesilaus and Carneades, therefore, shall be our types. 

Arcesilaus was born at Pitane in the 116th Olympiad (b. c. 
316). He was early taught mathematics and rhetoric, became 
the pupil of Theophrastus, afterwards of Aristotle, and finally of 
Polemo the Platonist. In this last school he was contemporary 
with Zeno, and probably there began that antagonism which w r as 
so remarkable in their subsequent career. On the death of 
Crates, Arcesilaus filled the Academic chair, and filled it with 
great ability and success. His fascinating manners won him 
general regard. He was learned and sweet-tempered, and gener¬ 
ous to a fault. Visiting a sick friend, who, he saw, was suffering 
from privation, he slipped, unobserved, a purse of gold under¬ 
neath the sick man’s pillow. When the attendant discovered it, 
the sick man said with a smile, “ This is one of Arcesilaus’s gen¬ 
erous frauds.” He was of a somewhat luxurious temper, but he 
lived till the age of seventy-five, when he killed himself by hard 
drinking. 


ARCESILAUS AND CARNEADES. 


295 


Carneades, the most illustrious of the Academicians, was born 
at Cyrene, in Africa, 01. 141, 4 (b. c. 213). He was a pupil of 
Diogenes the Stoic, who taught him the subtleties of disputation. 
This made him sometimes exclaim in the course of a debate : “ If 
I have reasoned rightly, you are wrong; if not, 0 Diogenes, return 
me the mina I paid you for my lessons.” On leaving Diogenes 
he became the pupil of Hegesinus, who then held the Academic 
chair; by him he was instructed in the skeptical principles of 
the Academy, and on his death he succeeded to his chair. He 
also diligently studied the voluminous writings of Chrysippus. 
These were of great value to him, exercising his subtlety, and 
trying the temper of his own metal. He owed so much to this 
opponent that he used to say, “ Had there not been a Chrysippus, 
I should not be what I am a sentiment very easy of explana¬ 
tion. There are two kinds of writers: those who directly instruct 
us in sound knowledge, and those who indirectly lead us to the 
truth by the very opposition they raise against their views. 
Next to exact knowledge, there is nothing so instructive as exact 
error: an error clearly stated, and presented in somewhat the 
same way as it at first presented itself to the mind which now 
upholds it, enables us to see not only that it is an error, but by 
what process it was deduced from its premises, and thus is 
among the most valuable modes of instruction. It is better than 
direct instruction: better, because the learner’s mind is called 
into full activity, and apprehends the truth for itself, instead of 
passively assenting to it. 

Carneades was justified in his praise of Chrysippus. He felt 
how much he owed to his antagonist. He felt that to him he 

O 

owed a clear conception of the Stoical error, and a clear convic¬ 
tion of the truth of the Academic doctrine; and owed also no 
inconsiderable portion of that readiness and subtlety which 
marked him out amongst his countrymen as a fitting Ambassa¬ 
dor to send to Rome. 

Carneades in Rome—Skepticism in the Stoic city—presents 
an interesting picture. The Romans crowded round him, fas- 


296 


THE NEW ACADEMY. 


cinated by his subtlety and eloquence. Before Galba—before 
Cato the Censor—he harangued with marvellous unction in 
praise of Justice; and the hard brow of the grim Stoic softened ; 
an approving smile played over those thin firm lips. But the 
next day the brilliant orator undertook to exhibit the uncertainty 
of all human knowledge; and, as a proof, he refuted all the argu¬ 
ments with which the day before he had supported Justice. He 
spoke against Justice as convincingly as he had spoken for it. 
The brow of Cato darkened again, and with a keen instinct of 
the daugers of such ingenuity operating upon the Roman youth, 
he persuaded the Senate to send back the Philosophers to their 
own country. 

Carneades returned to Athens, and there renewed his contest 
with the Stoics. He taught with great applause, and lived to 
the advanced age of ninety. 

That the Academicians should have embraced Skepticism is 
not strange: indeed, as we have said, Skepticism was the inevit¬ 
able result of the tendencies of the whole epoch; and the only 
sect which did not accept it was forced to find a refuge in Com¬ 
mon-Sense : that is to say, was forced to find refuge in the abdi¬ 
cation of Philosophy, which abdication was in itself a species of 
Skepticism. But it may seem strange that the Academy should 
derive itself from Plato; it may seem strange that Arcesilaus 
should be a continuer and a warm admirer of Plato. The an¬ 
cients themselves, according to Sextus Empiricus, were divided 
amongst each other respecting Plato’s real doctrine; some con¬ 
sidering him a skeptic, others a dogmatist. We have already 
explained the cause of this difference of opinion, and have shown 
how very little consistency and precision there is in the ideas of 
Plato upon all subjects except Method. Skepticism, therefore, 
might very easily result from a study of his writings. But this 
is not all. Plato’s attack upon the theories of his predecessors, 
which were grounded upon sense-knowledge, is constant, triumph¬ 
ant. The dialogue of the Thecetetus, which is devoted to the 
subject of Philosophy, is an exposition of the incapacity of sense 


ARCESILAUS AND CARNEADES. 


297 


to furnish materials for Philosophy. All that sense can furnish 
the materials for, is Opinion , and Opinion, as he frequently de¬ 
clares, even when it is Right Opinion, never can be Philosophy. 
Plato, in short, destroyed all the old foundations upon which 
theories had been constructed. He cleared the ground before 
commencing his own work. By this means he obviated the at¬ 
tacks of the Sophists, and yet refused to sustain the onus of errors 
which his predecessors had accumulated. The Sophists saw the 
weakness of the old belief, and attacked it. Having reduced it 
to ruins, they declared themselves triumphant. Plato appeared, 
and admitted the fact of the old fortress being in ruins, and its 
deserving to be so; but he denied that the city of Truth was 
taken. “Expend,” said he, “your wrath and skill in battering 
down such fortresses; I will assist you; for I too declare them 
useless. But the real fortress you have not yet approached ; it 
is situate on far higher ground.” Sense-knowledge and Opiniou 
being thus set aside, the stronghold of Philosophy was the Ideal 
theory: in it Plato found refuge from the Sophists. Aristotle 
came and destroyed that theory. "What then remained? Skep¬ 
ticism. 

Arcesilaus admitted, with Plato, the uncertainty of Opinion; 
but he also admitted with Aristotle the incorrectness of the Ideal 
theory. He was thus reduced to absolute Skepticism. The 
arguments of Plato had quite destroyed the certitude of Opinion ; 
the arguments of Aristotle had quite destroyed the Ideal theory. 
And thus, by refusing to accept one argument of the Platonic 
doctrine, Arcesilaus could from Plato’s works deduce his own 
theory of the Incomprehensibility of all things; the acatalepsy . 

The doctrine of acatalepsy recalls to us the Stoical doctrine of 
catalepsy or Apprehension, to which it is the antithesis. The 
Cataleptic Phantasm was the True Perception, according to the 
Stoics ; and, according to the Academicians, all Perceptions were 
acataleptic , i.e. bore no conformity to the objects perceived; or, 
if they did bear any conformity thereto, it could never be 
known. 


29S 


THE NEW ACADEMY. 


Arcesilaus saw the weak point of the Stoical argument. Zeno 
pretended that there was a Criterium, which decided between 
science and opinion, which decided between true and false per¬ 
ceptions, and this was the Assent which the mind gave to the 
truth of certain perceptions : in other words, Common-Sense was 
the Criterium. “ But,” said Arcesilaus, “ what is the difference 
between the Assent of a wise man, and the Assent of a madman ? 
—There is no difference but in name.” He felt that the criterium 
of the Stoics was itself in need of a Criterium. 

Chrysippus the Stoic combated Arcesilaus, and was in .urn 
combated by Carneades. The great question then pending was 
this:— 

What Criterium is there of the truth of our knowledge ? 

The Criterium must reside either in Reason, in Conception, or 
in Sensation. It cannot reside in Reason, because Reason itself 
is uot independent of the other two : it operates upon the mate¬ 
rials furnished by them, and is dependent upon them. Our 
knowledge is derived from the senses, and every object presented 
to the mind must consequently have been originally presented 
to the senses: on their accuracy the mind must depend. 

Reason cannot therefore contain within itself the desired Cri- 
terium. Nor can conception ; for the same arguments apply to 
it. Nor can the Criterium reside in Sense; because, as all 
admit, the senses are deceptive, and there is no perception which 
cannot be false. For what is Perception ? Our Senses only 
inform us of the presence of an object in so far as they are affected 
by it. But what is this ? Is it not we who are affected— we who 
are modified ? Yes; and this modification reveals both itself 
aud the object which causes it. Like Light, which in showing 
itself, shows also the objects upon which it is thrown; like light 
also, it shows objects in its own colors. Perception is a peculiar 
modification of the soul. The whole problem now to solve is 
this:— 

Does every modification of the soul exactly correspond with the 
external object which causes that modification ? 


AKCESILAUS AND CARNEADES. 


299 


This is a problem presented by the Academicians. They 
answered, but they did not solve it; they left to their adversaries 
the task of proving the correspondence between the object and 
subject. We may here venture to carry out their principles, and 
endeavor to solve the problem, as it is one still agitating the 
minds of metaphysicians. 

In nowise does the Sensation correspond with the object; in 
nowise does the modification correspond with the external cause, 
except in the relation of cause and effect. The early thinkers 
were well aware that, in order to attribute any certainty to sen¬ 
suous knowledge, we must assume that the Senses transmit us 
Copies of things! Democritus, who was the first to see the 
necessity of such an hypothesis, suggested that our Ideas were 
Eidola , or Images of the Objects, of an extremely airy texture, 
which were thrown off by the objects in the shape of effluvia, 
and entered the brain by the pores. Those who could not admit 
such an explanation substituted the hypothesis of Impressions. 
Ask any man, not versed in such inquiries, whether he believes 
his perceptions to be copies of objects—whether he believes that 
the thywer he sees before him exists quite independently of him, 
and of every other human being, and exists with the same attri¬ 
butes of shape, fragrance, taste, etc., his answ r er is sure to be in 
the affirmative. He will regard you as a madman if you doubt 
it. And yet so early as the epoch of which we are now sketch¬ 
ing the history, thinking men had learned in somewise to see 
that our Perceptions were not copies of Objects, but were simply 
modifications of our minds, caused by the objects. Once admit 
this, and sensuous knowledge is forever pronounced not only 
uncertain, but absolutely false. Can such a modification be a 
copy of the cause which modifies ? As well ask, Is the pain, 
occasioned by a burn, a copy of the fire? Is it at all like the 
fire? Does it at all express the essence of fire? Not in the 
least. It only expresses one relation in which we stand to the 
fire; one effect upon us which fire will produce. Nevertheless 
fire is an Object, and a burn is a sensation. The way in which 


300 


THE NEW ACADEMY. 


we perceive the existence of the Object (fire) is similar to that 
in which we perceive the existence of other objects: and that 
way is in the modifications they occasion ; i. e. in the Sen¬ 
sations. 

Let us take another instance. We sav that we hear Thunder: 
in other words, we have a Perception of the Object called Thun¬ 
der. Our sensation really is of a sound, which the electrical 
phenomena we call Thunder have caused in us, by acting on the 
aural nerve. Is our sensation of this sound any copy of the 
Phenomena ? Does it in any degree express the nature of the 
Phenomena? No; it only expresses the sensation we receive 
from a certain electrical state of the atmosphere. 

In these cases most people will readily acquiesce; for, by a 
very natural confusion of ideas, whenever they speak of percep¬ 
tions, they mostly mean visual perceptions; because with sight 
the clearest knowledge is associated ; because also the hypothesis 
of our perceptions being copies of Things, is founded upon sight. 
The same persons who would willingly admit that Pain was not 
a copy of the Fire, nor of any thing in the nature of Fire, except 
in its effect on our nerves, would protest that the appearance of 
Fire to the Eye was the real appearance of the Fire, all Eyes 
apart, and quite independent of human vision. Yet if all sentient 
beings were at once swept from the face of the earth, the fire 
would have no attribute at all resembling Pain ; because Pain is 
a modification, not of Fire, but of a sentient being. In like 
manner, if all sentient beings were at once swept from the face of 
the earth, the Fire would have no attributes at all resembling 
light and color; because light and color are modifications of the 
sentient being, caused by something external, but no more resem¬ 
bling its cause than the pain inflicted by an instrument resembles 
that instrument. 

Pain and color are modifications of the sentient being. The 
question at issue is, Can a modification of a sentient being be a 
copy of its cause ? The answer is clearly a negative. We may 
imagine that when we see an Object, our sensation is a copy of 


AECESILAUS AND CAENEADES. 


301 


it; because we believe that tlie Object paints itself upon the 
retina; and we liken perception to a mirror, in which things are 
reflected. It is extremely difficult to divest ourselves of this 
prejudice; but we may be made aware of the fallacy if we attend 
to those perceptions which are not visual—to the perceptions of 
sound, fragrance, taste, or pain. These are clearly nothing but 
modifications of our sentient being, caused by external objects, 
but in nowise resembling them. We are all agreed that the heat 
is not in the fire, but in us; that sweetness is not in the sugar, 
but in us; that fragrance is but the particles which, impinging 
on the olfactory nerve, cause a sensation in us. In all beings 
similarly constituted these things would have similar effects, 
would cause pain, sweetness, and fragrance; but on all other 
beings the effects would be different. Fire would burn paper, 
but not pain it; sugar would mix with water, but not give it the 
sensation of sweetuess. 

The radical error of those who believe that we perceive things 
as they are , consists in mistaking a metaphor for a fact, and 
believing that the mind is a mirror in which external objects are 
reflected. But, as Bacon finely says, “ The human understand¬ 
ing is like an unequal mirror to the rays of things, which , mixing 
its own nature with the nature of things , distorts and perverts 
them .” We attribute heat to the fire, and color to the flower; 
heat and color really being states of our consciousness , occasioned 
by the fire and the flower under certain conditions. 

Perception is nothing more than a state of the percipient; i. e. 
a state of consciousness. This state may be occasioned by some 
external cause, and may be as complex as the cause is complex,, 
but it is still nothing more than a state of consciousness—an 
effect produced by an adequate cause. Of every change in our 
Sensation we are conscious, and in time we learn to give definite 
names and forms to the causes of these changes. But in the fact 
of Consciousness there is nothing beyond consciousness. In our 
perceptions we are conscious only of the changes which have 
taken place within us : we can never transcend the sphere of our 
22 


302 


THE NEW ACADEMY. 


own consciousness; we can never go out of ourselves, and become 
aware of the objects which caused those changes. All we can do 
is to identify certain external appearances with certain internal 
changes, e. g. to identify the appearance we name “fire,” with 
certain sensations we have known to follow our being placed near 
it. Turn the fact of Consciousness how we will, we can see 
nothing in it but the change of a sentient being operated by 
some external cause. Consciousness is no mirror of the world; 
it gives no faithful reflection of things as they are per se ; it only 
gives a faithful report of its own modification as excited by exter¬ 
nal things. 

The world, apart from our consciousness, i. e. the non-ego qua 
non-ego—the world per se —is, in all likelihood, something utterly 
different from the world as we know it; for all we know of it is 
derived through our consciousness of what its effects are on us, 
and our consciousness is obviously only a state of ourselves , not 
a copy of external things. 

It may be here asked, How do you infer that the world is dif¬ 
ferent from what it appears to us ? 

The question is pertinent, and may be answered briefly. The 
world per se must be different from what it appears to us through 
consciousness, because to us it is only known in the relation of 
cause and effect. World is the Cause; our Consciousness the 
Effect. But the same Cause operating on some other organization 
would produce a very different effect. If all animals were blind, 
there would be no such thing as light (i. e. light as we know it), 
because light is a phenomenon made up out of the operation of 
some unknown thing on the retina. If all animals were deaf, 
there would be no such thing as sound, because sound is a phe¬ 
nomenon made up out of the operation of some unknown thing 
on the tympanum. If all men were without their present ner¬ 
vous system, there would be no such thing as pain, because pain 
is a phenomenon made up out of the operation of some external 
thing on the specialized nervous system. 

Light, color, sound, taste, smell, are all states of Conscious- 


ARCESILAUS AND CARNEADES. 


303 


ness; what they are beyond Consciousness, as existences per se, 
we cannot know, we cannot imagine, because we can only con¬ 
ceive them as we know them. Light, with its myriad forms and 
colors—Sound, with its thousand-fold life—make Nature what 
Nature appears to us. But they do not exist as such apart from 
our consciousness; they are the investitures with which we 
clothe the world. Nature in her insentient solitude is an eternal 
'Darkness—an eternal Silence. 

We conclude, therefore, that the world per se in nowise re¬ 
sembles the World as it appears to us. Perception is an Effect; 
and its truth is not the truth of resemblance , but of relation , i. e. 
it is the true operation of the world on us, the true operation of 
Cause and Effect. But perception is not the true resemblance 
of the world: Consciousness is no mirror reflecting external 
things. 

Let us substitute for the metaphor of a mirror the more ab¬ 
stract expression, “ Perception is the Effect of an external Object 
acting on a sentient being,” and much of the confusion darkening 
this matter will be dissipated. An Effect, we know*, agrees with 
its Cause, but it does not necessarily resemble it. An Effect is no 
more a Copy of the Cause than pain is a copy of the application 
of fire to a finger: cryo, Perception can never be an accurate 
report of what things are per se , but only of what they are in 
relation to us. 

It has been said that, although no single sense does actually 
convey to us a correct impression of any thing, nevertheless we 
are enabled to confirm or modify the report of one sense by the 
report of another sense, and that the result of the whole activity 
of the five senses is a true impression of the external Thing. This 
is a curious fallacy: it pretends that a number of false impres¬ 
sions are sufficient to constitute a true one! 

The conclusion to be drawn from the foregoing premises is 
this: There is no correspondence between the object and the 
sensation, except that of Cause and Effect. Sensations are not 
Copies of Objects; do not at all resemble them. As we can 


304 


THE NEW ACADEMY. 


only know objects through sensation— i. e. as we can only know 
our sensations—we can never ascertain the truth respecting 
objects. 

This brings us back to the New Academy, the disciples of 
which strenuously maintained that Perception, being nothing but 
a modification of the Soul, could never reveal the real nature of 
things. 

Do we then side with the Academicians in proclaiming all 
human knowledge deceptive? No: to them, as to the Pyr- 
rhonists, we answer: You are quite right in affirming that man 
cannot transcend the sphere of his own consciousness, cannot 
penetrate the real essences of things, cannot know causes, cau 
only know phenomena. But this affirmation—though it crushes 
Metaphysics—though it interdicts the inquiry into noumena , into 
essences and causes, as frivolous because futile—does not touch 
Science. If all our knowledge is but a knowledge of phenomena, 
there can still be a Science of Phenomena adequate to all man’s 
true wants. If Sensation is but the effect of an External Cause, 
we, who can never know that Cause, know it in its relation to us, 
i. e. in its Effect. These Effects are as constant as their Causes; 
and, consequently, there can be a Science of Effects. Such a 
Science is that named Positive Science, the aim of which is to 
trace the Co-existences and Successions of Phenomena, i. e. to 
trace the relation of Cause and Effect throughout the universe 
submitted to our inspection. 

But neither the Pyrrhonists nor the Academicians saw this 
refuge for the mind; they consequently proclaimed Skepticism 
as the final result of inquiry. 


CHAPTER V. 


SUMMARY OF THE EIGHTH EPOCH. 

We have now brought our narrative to the second crisis in the 
history of speculation. The Skepticism which made the Sophists 
powerful, and which closed the first period of this history, we 
now behold once more usurping the intellects of men, and this 
time with far greater power. A Socrates appeared to refute the 
Sophists. Who is there to refute and to discredit the Skeptics ? 

The Skeptics, and all thinkers during the epoch we have just 
treated were such, whether they called themselves Epicureans, 
Stoics, Pyrrhonists, or Yew Academicians—the Skeptics, we say, 
were in possession of the most formidable arms. From Socrates, 
from Plato, and from Aristotle, they had borrowed their best 
weapons, and with these had attacked Philosophy, and attacked 
it with success. 

All the wisdom of the antique world was powerless against the 
Skeptics. Speculative belief was reduced to the most uncertain 
“ probability.” Faith in philosophic Truth was extinct. Faith 
in human endeavor that way was gone. Philosophy was im¬ 
possible. 

But there was one peculiarity of the Socratic doctrine which 
was preserved even in the midst of skepticism. Socrates had 
made Ethics the great object of his inquiries: and all subsequent 
thinkers had given it a degree of attention which before was 
unknown. Philosophy contented itself with the Common-Sense 
doctrine of the Stoics, and the Probabilities of the Skeptics, 
which, however futile as philosophic principles, were efficacious 
enough as moral principles. Common-Sense may be a bad basis 


306 


SUMMARY OF THE EIGHTH EPOCH. 


for metaphysical or scientific reasoning; but it is not so bad a 
basis for a system of morals. 

The protest, therefore, which Skepticism made against all 
Philosophy was not so anarchical in its tendency as the protest 
made by the Sophists; but it was more energetic, more terrible. 
In the wisdom of that age there lay no cure for it. The last cry 
of despair seemed to have been wrung from the baffled thinkers, 
as they declared their predecessors to have been hopelessly 
wrong, and declared also that their error was without a remedy. 

It was, indeed, a saddening contemplation. The hoj>es and 
aspirations of so many incomparable minds thus irrevocably 
doomed ; the struggles of so many men, from Thales, who first 
asked himself, Whence do all things proceed ? to the elaborate 
systematization of the forms of thought which, occupied an 
Aristotle—the struggles of all these men had ended in Skepti¬ 
cism. Little was to be gleaned from the harvest of their en¬ 
deavors but arguments against the possibility of that Philosophy 
they were so anxious to form. Centuries of thought had not 
advanced the mind one step nearer to a solution of the problems 
with which, child-like, it began. It began with a child-like 
question ; it ended with an aged doubt. Not only did it doubt 
the solutions of the great problem which others had attempted ; 
it even doubted the possibility of any solution. It was not the 
doubt which begins, but the doubt which ends inquiry : it had 
no illusions. 

This was the second crisis of Greek Philosophy. Reason thus 
assailed could only find a refuge in Faith; and the next period 
opens with the attempt to construct a Religious Philosophy. 


NINTH EPOCH. 


PHILOSOPHY ALLIES ITSELF WITH FAITH : THE ALEXAN¬ 
DRIAN SCHOOLS. 


CHAPTER I. 

E1SE OF FTEO-PLATONISM. 

§ I. Alexandria. 

l 

Philosophy no longer found a home in Greece; it had no 
longer any worshippers in its native country, and was forced to 
seek them elsewhere. A period had arrived when all problems 
seemed to have been stated, and none seemed likely to be solved. 
Every system which human ingenuity could devise had been 
devised by the early thinkers; and not one had been able to 
withstand examination. In the early annals of speculation, a 
new and decisive advance is made whenever a new question is 
asked; to suggest a doubt, is to exercise ingenuity; to ask a 
question* is to awaken men to a new view of the subject. But 
now all questions had been asked; old questions had been re¬ 
vived under new forms ; nothing remained to stimulate inquiry, 
nothing to give speculators a hope of success. 

Unable to ask new questions, or to offer new answers to those 
already asked, the Philosophers readily seized on the only means 
which enabled them to gain renown : they travelled. They 
carried their doctrines into Egypt and to Rome; and in those 
places they were listened to with -wonder and delight. Their 
old doctrines were novelties to a people who had no doctrines ol 



303 


RISE OF NEO-PLATONISM. 


its own; and, from the excessive cost of books in those days, 
almost all instruction being oral, the strangers were welcomed 
warmly, and the doctrines imported were as novel as if they had 
been just invented. 

Philosophy, exiled from Greece, was a favored guest in Alex¬ 
andria and Rome: but in both cases it was a stranger, and could 
not be naturalized. In Alexandria, however, it made a brilliant 
display; and the men it produced gave it an originality and an 
influence which it never possessed in Rome. 

Roman Philosophy was but a weak paraphrase of the Grecian; 
and we, therefore, give it no place in this history. To speak 
Greek, to write Greek, became the fashionable ambition of Rome. 
The child was instructed by a Greek slave. Greek Professors 
taught Philosophy and Rhetoric to aspiring youths. Athens 
had become the necessary “ tour” which was to complete a 
man’s education. It was there that Cicero learned those ideas 
which he delighted in setting forth in charming dialogues. It 
was there Horace learned that light and careless philosophy, 
which shines through the sparkling crystal of his verse. Wan¬ 
dering from the Academy to the Porch, and from the Porch to 
the Garden, he became imbued with that skepticism which 
checks his poetical enthusiasm; he learned to make a system of 
that pensive epicureanism which gives so peculiar a character to 
his poems; a character which, with a sort of after-dinner free¬ 
dom and bonhomie, recommends him to men of the world. 

In Rome, Philosophy might tinge the poetry, give weight to ora¬ 
tory, method to jurisprudence, and supply some topics of conversa¬ 
tion ; but it was no Belief filling the minds of serious men : it took 
no root in the national existence; it produced no great Thinkers. 

In Alexandria the case was different. There several schools 
were formed, and some new elements introduced into the doc¬ 
trines then existent. Great thinkers—Plotinus, Proclus, Por¬ 
phyry—made it illustrious; and it had a rival, whose antagonism 
alone would confer immortal renown upon it: that rival was 
Christianity. 


ALEXANDRIA. 


309 


Iii no species of grandeur was the Alexandrian school deficient, 
as M. Saisset justly observes :* genius, power, and duration, have 
consecrated it. Reanimating, during an epoch of decline, the 
fecundity of an aged civilization, it created a whole family of 
illustrious names. Plotinus, its real founder, resuscitated Plato; 
Proclus gave the world another Aristotle; and, in the person of 
Julian the Apostate, it became master of the world. For three 
centuries it was a formidable rival to the greatest power that 
ever appeared on earth—the power of Christianity; and, if it 
succumbed in the struggle, it only fell with the civilization of 
which it had been the last rampart. 

Alexandria, the centre of gigantic commerce, soon became a 
new metropolis of science, rivalling Athens. The Alexandrian 
Library is too celebrated to need more than a passing allusion: 
to it, and to the men assembled there, we owe the vast labors of 
erudition in philosophy and literature which were of such service 
to the world. We cannot here enumerate all the men of science 
who made it illustrious; enough if we mention Euclid, for Math¬ 
ematics ; Conon and Hipparchus, for Astronomy; Eratosthenes, 
for Geography; and Aristarchus, for literary Criticism. Besides 
these, there were the Philosophers; and Lucian, the witty Skep¬ 
tic ; and the Poets, Apollonius Rhodius, Callimachus, Lycophron, 
Trvphiodorus, and, above all, the sweet idyllic Theocritus. 

It is a curious spectacle. Beside the Museum of Alexandria 
there rises into formidable importance the Didascalia of the 
Christians. In the same city, Philo the Jew, and GEnesidemus 
the Pyrrhonist, founded their respective schools. Ammonius 
Saccas appears there. Lucian passes through at the same time 
that Clemens Alexandrinus is teaching. After Plotinus has 
taught, Arius and Athanasius will also teach. Greek Skepti¬ 
cism, Judaism, Platonism, Christianity—all have their interpreters 
within so small a distance from the temple of Serapis! 


* Revue des Deux Mondes , 1844, tome iii. p. 783 ; an admirable article on 
.ne Alexandrian Schools. 




310 


RISE OF NEO-PLATONISM. 


§ II. Piiilo. 

Alexandria, as we have seen, was the theatre of various strug¬ 
gles : of these we are to select one, and that one the struggle of 
the Neo-Platonists with the Christian Fathers. 

Under the name of the Alexandrian School are designated, 
looselv enough, all those thinkers who endeavored to find a refuse 
from Skepticism in a new Philosophy, based on altogether new 
principles. Now, although these various Thinkers by no means 
constitute a School, they constitute a Movement, and they form 
an Epoch in the history of Philosophy. We may merely ob¬ 
serve that the “ Alexandrian School” and the “ Neo-Platonists” 
are not convertible terms: the former designates a whole move¬ 
ment, the latter designates the most illustrious section of that 
movement. 

Philo the Jew is the first of these Neo-Platonists. He was 
born at Alexandria, a few years before Christ. The influence of 
Greek ideas had long been felt in Alexandria, and Philo, com¬ 
menting on the writings of the Jews, did so in the spirit of one 
deeply imbued with Greek thought. His genius was Oriental, 
his education Greek-; the result was a strange mixture of mys¬ 
ticism and dialectics.'* To Plato he owed much: but to the 
New Academy, perhaps more. From Carneades he learned to 
distrust the truth of all sensuous knowledge, and to deny that 
Reason had any criterium of truth. 

Thus far he was willing to travel with the Greeks; thus far 
had dialectics conducted him. But there was another element 
in his mind besides the Greek: there was the Oriental or mys¬ 
tical element. If human knowledge is a delusion, we must seek 
for truth in some higher sphere. The Senses may deceive; 
Reason may be powerless ; but there is still a faculty in man— 


* St. Paul thus comprehensively expresses the national characteristic ol 
the Jews and Greeks: “The Jews require a sign (i e. a miracle), and the 
Greeks seek after wisdom (i. e. philosophy). 1 ’—1 Corinth, i. 22. 



PHILO. 


311 


there is Faith. Real Science is the gift of God: its name is 
Faith: its origin is the goodness of God : its cause is Piety. 

This conception is not Plato’s, yet is nevertheless Platonic. 
Plato would never have thus condemned Reason for the sake of 
Faith; and yet he, too, thought that the nature of God could 
not be known, although his existence could be proved. In this 
respect he would have agreed with Philo. But, although Plato 
does not speak of Science as the gift of God, he does in one 
place so speak of Virtue; and he devotes the whole dialogue oi 
the Meno to show that Virtue cannot be taught, because it is not 
a thing of the understanding, but a gift of God. The reasons 
he there employs may easily have suggested to Philo their ap¬ 
plication to Philosophy. 

From this point Philo’s Philosophy of course becomes a the¬ 
ology. God is ineffable, incomprehensible: his existence may be 
known; his nature can never be known ; 6 <$’ apa ouSs <rw vw 
xurcCKrtfrog, on xard to sivou / ut - ovov . But to know that he 
exists, is in itself the knowledge of his being one, perfect, simple, 
immutable, and without attribute. This knowledge is implied in 
the simple knowledge of his existence: he cannot be otherwise, 
if he exist at all. But to know this, is not to know in what 
consists his perfection. We cannot penetrate with our glance 
the mystery of his essence. We can only believe. 

If however we cannot know God in his essence, we can obtain 
some knowledge of his Divinity: we know it in The Word. 
This \oyog —this Word (using the expression in its Scriptural 
sense)—fills a curious place in all the mystical systems. God 
being incomprehensible, inaccessible, an intermediate existence 
was necessary as an interpreter between God and Man, and this 
intermediate existence the Mystics called The Word. 

The Word , according to Philo, is God’s Thought. This 
Thought is two-fold: it is Xoyog ivbiciQzrog, the Thought as em¬ 
bracing all Ideas (in the Platonic sense of the term Idea), i. e 
Thought as Thought; and it is Xo yog tfpoqpopixog, the Thought re¬ 
alized : Thought become the World. 


312 


RISK OF NEO PLATONISM. 


Iii these three hypostases of the Deity we see the Trinity oi 
Plotinus foreshadowed. There is, first, God the Father; secondly, 
the Son of God, i. e. the Xoyog ; thirdly, the Son of the Xoyc^, 
i. e. the World. 

This brief outline of Philo’s Theology will sufficiently ex¬ 
emplify the two great facts which we are anxious to have under¬ 
stood :—1st, the union of Platonism with Oriental mysticism; 
2dly, the entirely new direction given to Philosophy, by uniting 
it once more with Religion. It is this direction which character- 
izes the Movement of the Alexandrian School. Reason had 
been shown to be utterly powerless to solve the great questions 
of Philosophy then agitated. Various Schools had pursued 
various Methods, but all with one result. Skepticism was the 
conclusion of every struggle. “And yet,” said the Mystics, 
“ we have an idea of God and of his goodness; we have an in¬ 
eradicable belief in his existence, and in the Perfection of his 
nature, consequently, in the beneficence of his aims. Yet these 
ideas are not innate; were they innate, they would be uniformly 
entertained by all men, and amongst all nations. If they are 
not innate, whence are they derived ? Not from Reason ; not 
from experience: then from Faith.” 

Now, Philosophy, conceive it how you will, is entirely the off¬ 
spring of Reason: it is the endeavor to explain by Reason the 
mvsteries amidst which we “ move, live, and have our beino*.” 

w ft O 

Although it is legitimate to say, “ Reason is incapable of solv¬ 
ing the problems proposed to it,” it is not legitimate to add, 
“ therefore we must call in the aid of Faith.” In Philosophy, 
Reason must either reign alone, or abdicate. No compromise 
is permissible. If there are things between heaven and earth 
which are not dreamt of in our Philosophy—which do not 
come within the possible sphere of our Philosophy—we may 
believe in them, indeed, but we cannot christen that belief 
philosophical. 

One of two things,—either Reason is capable of solving the 
problems, or it is incapable : in the one case its attempt is phi 


PHILO. 


313 


losophical; in the second case its attempt is futile. Any attempt 
to mix up Faith with Reason, in a matter exclusively addressed 
to the Reason, must be abortive. "We do not say that what Faith 
implicitly accepts, Reason may not explicitly justify; but we say, 
that to bring Faith to the aid of Reason, is altogether to destrov 
the philosophical character of an inquiry. Reason may justify 
Faith; but faith must not furnish conclusions for Philosophy. 
Directly Reason is abandoned, Philosophy ceases; and every ex¬ 
planation then offered is a theological explanation, and must be 
put to altogether different tests from what a philosophical ex¬ 
planation would require. 

All speculation must originally have been theological: but in 
process of time Reason timidly ventured upon what are called 
“ natural explanationsand from the moment that it felt itself 
strong enough to be independent, Philosophy was established. 
In the early speculations of the Ionians we saw the pure efforts 
of Reason to explain mysteries. As Philosophy advanced, it 
became more and more evident that the problems attacked by 
the early thinkers were, in truth, so far from being nearer a 
solution, that their extreme difficulty was only just becoming 
appreciated. The difficulty became more and more apparent, 
till at last it was pronounced insuperable: Reason was declared 
incompetent. Then the Faith which had so long been set aside 
was again called to assist the inquirer. In other words, Philos¬ 
ophy, discovering itself to be powerless, resigned in favor of 
Theology. 

When, therefore, we say that the direction given to the human 
mind by the Alexandrian School, in conjunction with Christian¬ 
ity—the only two spiritual movements which materially influ¬ 
enced the epoch we are speaking of—was a theological direction, 
the reader will at once see its immense importance, and will be 
prepared to follow us in our exposition of the mystical doctrines 
of Plotinus. 


CHAPTER II. 

ANTAGONISM OF CHRISTIANITY AND NEO 

PLATONISM. 

§ I. Plotinus. 

While Christianity was making rapid and enduring progress 
in spite of every obstacle; while the Apostles wandered from 
city to city, sometimes honored as Evangelists, at other times 
insulted and stoned as enemies, the Neo-Platonists were develop¬ 
ing the germ deposited by Philo, and not only constructing a 
theology, but endeavoring on that theology to found a Church. 
Whilst a new religion, Christianity, was daily usurping the souls 
of men, these philosophers fondly imagined that an old Religion 
could effectually oppose it. 

Christianity triumphed without much difficulty. Looking at 
it in a purely moral view, its immense superiority is at once 
apparent. The Alexandrians exaggerated the vicious tendency 
of which we have already seen the fruits in the Cynics and 
Stoics—the tendency to despise Humanity. Plotinus blushed 
because he had a body: contempt of human personality could 
go no further. What was offered in exchange ? The ecstatic 
perception; the absorption of personality in that of the Deity— 
a Deity inaccessible to knowledge as to love—a Deity which the 
soul can only attain by a complete annihilation of its personality. 

The attempt of the Neo-Platonists failed, as it deserved to fail; 
but it had great talents in its service, and it made great noise in 
the world. It had, as M. Saisset remarks, three periods. The 
first of these, the least brilliant but the most fruitful, is that of 
Ammonius Saccas and Plotinus. A porter of Alexandria becomes 


PLOTINUS. 


315 


the chief of a School, and men of genius listen to him ; amongst 
his disciples are Plotinus, Origen, and Longinus. This School is 
perfected in obscurity, and receives at last a solid basis by the 
development of a metaphysical system. Plotinus, the author of 
this system, shortly after lectures at Rome with amazing success. 
It is then that the Alexandrian School enters upon its second 
period. With Porphyry and Iamblicus it becomes a sort of 
Church, and disputes with Christianity the empire of the world. 
Christianity had ascended the throne in the person of Constan¬ 
tine ; Neo-Platonism dethrones it, and usurps its place in the 
person of Julian the Apostate. But now mark the difference. 
In losing Constantine, Christianity lost nothing of its real power; 
for its power lay in the might of convictions, and not in the sup¬ 
port of potentates; its power was a spiritual power, ever active, 
ever fruitful. In losing Julian, Neo-Platonism lost its power, 
political and religious. The third period commences with that 
loss : and the genius of Proclus bestows on it one last gleam of 
splendor. In vain did he strive to revive the scientific spirit of 
Platonism, as Plotinus had endeavored to revive the religious 
spirit of Paganism: his efforts were vigorous, but sterile. Under 
Justinian the School of Alexandria became extinct. 

Such is the outward history of the School: let us now cast a 
glance at the doctrines which were there elaborated. In the 
writings of thinkers professedly eclectic, such as were the Alex¬ 
andrians, it is obvious that the greater portion will be repetitions 
and reproductions of former thinkers; and the historian will 
therefore neglect such opinions to confine himself to those which 
constitute the originality of the School. The originality of the 
Alexandrians consists in having employed the Platonic Dialectics 
as a guide to Mysticism and Pantheism; in having connected 
the doctrine of the East with the dialectics of the Greeks; in 
having made Reason the justification of Faith. 

There are three essential points to be here examined: their 
Dialectics, their theory of the Trinity, and their principle of 
Emanation. By their Dialectics they were Platonists; by their 


316 ANTAGONISM OF CHRISTIANITY, ETC. 

theory of the Trinity they were Mystics; by their principle of 
Emanation they were Pantheists. 

§ II. The Alexandrian Dialectics. 

The nature of the Platonic Dialectics we hope to have already 
rendered intelligible; so that in saying Plotinus employed them 
we are saved from much needless repetition. But although Dia¬ 
lectics formed the basis of Alexandrian philosophy, they did not, 
as with Plato, furnish the grounds of belief. As far as human 
philosophy went, Dialectics were efficient; but there were pro¬ 
blems which did not come within the sphere of human philos¬ 
ophy, and for these another Method was requisite. 

Plotinus agreed with Plato that there could only be a science 
of Universals. Every individual thing was but a phenomenon, 
passing quickly away, and having no real existence; it could not 
therefore be the object of philosophy. But these universals— 
these Ideas which are the only real existences—are they not also 
subordinate to some higher Existence ? Phenomena were sub¬ 
ordinate to Noumena; but Noumena themselves were subordinate 
to the One Noumenon. In other words, the Sensible world was 
but the Appearance of the Ideal World, and the Ideal World in 
its turn was but the mode of God’s existence. 

The question then arises : How do we know any thing of God? 
The sensible world we perceive through our senses; the Ideal 
World we gain glimpses of through the reminiscence which the 
sensible world awakens in us; but how are we to take the last 
step—how are we to know the Deity ? 

I am a finite being; but how can I comprehend the Infinite ? 
As soon as I comprehend the Infinite, I am Infinite myself; that 
is to say, I am no longer myself, no longer that finite being, hav¬ 
ing a consciousness of his own separate existence.'* If, there¬ 
fore, I attain to a knowledge of the Infinite, it is not by my Rea- 


* Ti{ uv ovv tijv Sivapuv avrov Z\oi hpov ircioav ; ei yap hpov naaav, il av Ttj 
a'jrov 6ia(J>fpoi. — Plotinus, Enn. v. lib. 5. c. 10. 



THE ALEXANDRIAN DIALECTICS. 


317 


son, which is finite and embraces only finite objects, but by some 
higher faculty, a faculty altogether impersonal, which identifies 
itself with its object. 

The identity of Subject and Object—of the thought with the 
thing thought of—is the only possible ground of knowledge. 
This position, which some of our readers will recognize as the 
fundamental position of modern German speculation, is so re¬ 
moved from all ordinary conceptions, that we must digress awhile 
in order to explain it. Neo-Platonism is a blank without it. 

Knowledge and Being are Identical; to know more is to be 
more. This is not, of course, maintaining the absurd proposition 
that to know a horse is to be a horse : all we know of that horse 
is only what we know of the changes in ourselves occasioned by 
some external cause, and identifying our internal change with 
that external cause, we call it a horse. Here knowledge and be¬ 
ing are identical. We really know nothing of the external cause 
(horse), we only know our own state of being; and to say, there¬ 
fore, that “ in our knowledge of the horse we are the horse,” is 
only saying, in unusual language, that our knowledge is a state 
of our being, and nothing more. The discussion in the fourth 
Chapter of the foregoing Epoch respecting perception, was an 
attempt to prove that knowledge is only a state of our own con¬ 
sciousness, excited by some unknown cause. The cause must 
remain unknown, because knowledge is effect, not cause. 

An apple is presented to you; you see it, feel it, taste it, smell 
it, and are said to know it. What is this knowledge ? Simply 
a consciousness of the various ways in which the apple affects 
you. You are blind and cannot see it: there is one quality less 
which it possesses, i. e. one mode less in which it is possible for 
you to be affected. You are without the senses of smell and 
taste: there are two other deficiencies in your knowledge of the 
apple. So that, by taking away your senses, we take away from 
the apple each of its qualities: in other words, we take away the 
means of your being affected. Your knowledge of the apple is 
reduced to nothing. In a similar way, by endowing you with 
23 


SIS 


ANTAGONISM OF CHRISTIANITY, ETC. 


more senses we increase the qualities of tlie apple; we increase 
your knowledge by enlarging your being. Thus are Knowledge 
and Being identical; knowledge is a state of Being as knowing. 

“If,” said Plotinus, “knowledge is the same as the thing 
known, the Finite, as Finite, never can know the Infinite, because 
it cannot be the Infinite. To attempt, therefore, to know the In¬ 
finite by Reason is futile, it can only be known in immediate 
presence, tfapovtfla. The faculty by which the mind divests itself 
of its personality is Ecstasy. In this Ecstasy the soul becomes 
loosened from its material prison, separated from individual con¬ 
sciousness, and becomes absorbed in the Infinite Intelligence 
from w r hich it emanated. In this Ecstasy it contemplates real 
existence; it identifies itself v r ith that which it contemplates.” 

The enthusiasm upon which this Ecstasy is founded is not a 
faculty which we constantly possess, such as Reason or Percep¬ 
tion : it is only a transitory state, at least so long as our personal 
existence in this world continues. It is a flash of rapturous light, 
in which reminiscence is changed into intuition , because in that 
moment the captive soul is given back to its parent, its God. 
The bonds which attach the soul to the body are mortal; and 
God, our father, pitying us, has made those bonds, from which 
we suffer, fragile and delicate, and in his goodness he gives us 
certain intervals of respite: Zsiig Ss ifa.rr t p tfovoujxevaf, 

Qvrird aurwv va, SsC/xa rfo iwv rfspi ci rfovovvrai, SlSurfiv dva^ccoXag Sv 
Xpovois. 

The Oriental and mystical character of this conception is worth 
remarking; at the same time there is a Platonic element in it, 
which may be noticed. Plato, in the Ion , speaks of a chain of 
inspiration, which descends from Apollo to poets, who transmit 
the inspiration to the rhapsodists; the last links of the chain are 
the souls of lovers and philosophers, who, unable to transmit the 
divine gift, are nevertheless agitated by it. The Alexandrians 
also admit the divine inspiration: not that inspiration which 
only warms and exalts the heart, but that inspiration revealing 
the Truth which Reason can neither discern nor comprehend. 


THE ALEXANDRIAN DIALECTICS. 


319 


Whether, in ascending through the various sciences and labori¬ 
ously mounting all the degrees of Dialectics, we finally arrive at 
the summit, and tear away the veil behind which the Deity is 
hidden; or, instead of thus slowly mounting, we arrive at the 
summit by a sudden spring, by the force of virtue or by the force 
of love, the origin of this revelation is the same : the Poet, the 
Prophet, and the Philosopher only differ in the point of depart¬ 
ure each takes. Dialectics, therefore, though a valuable method, 
is not an infallible one for arriving at Ecstasy. Every thing 
which purifies the soul and makes it resemble its primal simpli¬ 
city, is capable of conducting it to Ecstasy. Besides, there are 
radical differences in men’s natures. Some souls are ravished 
with Beauty; and these belong to the Muses. Others are ravish¬ 
ed with Unity and Proportion; and these are Philosophers. 
Others are more struck with Moral perfections; and these are 
the pious and ardent souls who live only in religion. 

Thus, then, the passage from simple Sensation, or from Remi¬ 
niscence, to Ecstasy, may be accomplished in three ways. By 
Music (in the ancient and comprehensive sense of the term), by 
Dialectics, and by Love or Prayer. The result is always the 
same,—the victory of the Universal over the Individual. 

Such is the answer given by the Alexandrians to that world- 
old question, How do we know God ? The Reason of man is in¬ 
competent to such knowledge, because Reason is finite, and the 
finite cannot embrace the infinite. But, inasmuch as Man has a 
knowledge of the Deity, he must have obtained it in some way: 
the question is, In what way ? This question, which the Chris¬ 
tian Fathers were enabled to answer satisfactorily by referring to 
Revelation, the Alexandrians could only answer most unsatisfac¬ 
torily by declaring Ecstasy to be the medium of communication, 
because in Ecstasy the soul lost its personality and became ab¬ 
sorbed in the Infinite Intelligence. 

We may read in this philosophy an instructive lesson respect¬ 
ing the vicious circle in which all such reasonings are condemned 
to move: 


320 antagonism of Christianity, F/rc. 

“The one poor finite being in the abyss 
Of infinite being twinkling restlessly.” 

This finite being strives to comprehend that which includes it, 
and in the impossible attempt exerts its confident ingenuity. 
Conscious that the finite as finite cannot comprehend the infinite, 
the Alexandrian hypothesis is at least consistent in making the 
finite become, for an instant, infinite. The grounds however 
upon which this hypothesis is framed are curious. The axiom 
is this:—The finite cannot comprehend the infinite. The prob¬ 
lem is this :—How can the finite comprehend the infinite ? And 
the solution is : The finite must become the infinite. 

Absurd as it is, it is the conclusion deduced by a vigorous in¬ 
tellect from premises which seemed indisputable. It is only one 
of the absurdities inseparable from the attempted solution of in¬ 
soluble problems. 

§ III. Tiie Alexandrian Trinity. 

We have said that the philosophy of the Alexandrians was a 
theology; their theology may be said to be concentrated in the 
doctrine of the Trinity. Nearly allied to the mystery of the In¬ 
carnation, which was inseparable from the mystery of Redemp¬ 
tion, the dogma of the Holy Trinity was, as M. Saisset remarks, 
the basis of all the Christian metaphysics. The greater part of 
the important heresies, Arianism, Sabellianism, Nestorianism, 
etc., resulted from differences respecting some portion of this 
doctrine. It becomes, therefore, a matter of high historical in¬ 
terest to determine its parentage. Some maintain that the Trin¬ 
ity of the Christians was but an imitation of that of the Alexan¬ 
drians ; others accuse the Alexandrians of being the imitators. 
The dispute has been angrily conducted on both sides. It is not 
our purpose to meddle with it, as our history steers clear of such 
matters; but we think it right to indicate the quarrel.* 

* Such of our readers as may desire a compendious statement of the 
question are referred to M. Jules Simon, Jlistoire de VEcole d'Alexandrie, 
vol. i. pp. 308-341, and to the article by M. Saisset, in the Revue des Deux 
Mondes , before referred to. 



TIIR ALEXANDRIAN TRINITY. 321 

The Alexandrian Trinity is as follows:—God is triple, and, at 
the same time, one. Ilis nature contains within it three distinct 
Urostases (Substances, i. e. Persons), and these three make one 
Being. The first is the Unity: not The One Being, not Being 
at all, but simple Unity. The second is the Intelligence, which 
is identical with Being. The third is the Universal Soul, cause 
of all activity and life. 

Such is the formula of the dogma. Let us now see how their 
Dialectics conducted them to it. On looking abroad upon the 
world, and observing its constant transformations, what is the 
first thing that presents itself to our minds as the cause of all 
these changes ? It is Life. The whole world is alive; and, not 
only alive, but seemingly participating in a life similar to our 
own. On looking deeper, we discover that life itself is but an 
efiect of some higher cause; and this cause must be the “Uni¬ 
versal,” which we are seeking to discover. Our logic tells us that 
it is Activity—Motion. But with this Motion we cannot pro¬ 
ceed far. It soon becomes apparent to us that the myriad on¬ 
goings of nature are not merely activities, but intelligent activities. 
No hazard rules this world. Intelligence is everywhere visible. 
The Cause, then, we have been seeking is at last discovered : it 
is an Intelligent Activity. Now, what is this, but that mysterious 
force residing within us, directing us, impelling us ? What is 
this Intelligent Activity but a soul ? The soul which impels and 
directs us is an image of the Soul which impels and directs the 
world. God, therefore, is the eternal Soul, the Wo have 

here the first Hypostasis of the Alexandrians. On a deeper inspec¬ 
tion this notion turns out less satisfactory. The dialectician, whose 
whole art consists in dividing and subdividing, in order to arrive 
at pure unity—who is always unravelling the perplexed web of 
speculation, to lay bare at last the unmixed One which had be¬ 
come enveloped in the Many—the dialectician, bred up in the 
Schools of Plato and Aristotle, could not rest satisfied with so 
complex an entity as an Intelligent Activity. There are at least 
two ideas here, and two ideas entirely distinct in nature, viz., In- 


322 


ANTAGONISM OF CHRISTIANITY, ETC. 


telligence and Motion. Now, although these might be united in 
some idea common to both, yet superior to both, neither of them 
could be considered as the last term in an analysis. The Intel¬ 
ligence, when analyzed, is itself the activity of some intelligent 
being, of Mind, Xoyog. 

God, therefore, is Mind, absolute, eternal, immutable. We 
have here the second Hypostasis. Superior to the Divine Soul, 
tou tfavroV, which is the cause of all activity, and king of 
the sensible world, x°P r )7^ f3a<fi\sug <rwv yiyvo/xsvwv, 

we find the Divine Mind, voog, the magnificence of which we may 
faintly conceive by reflecting on the splendors of the sensible 
world, with the Gods, Men, Animals, and Plants, which adorn 
it: splendors which are but imperfect images of the incomparable 
lustre of eternal truth. The Divine Mind embraces all the intel¬ 
ligible Ideas which are without imperfection, without movement. 
This is the Age of Gold, of which God is the Saturn. For Saturn, 
of whom the Poets have so grandly sung, is the Divine Intelli¬ 
gence ; that perfect world which they have described, when 

“ Ver erat seternum: placidique tepentibus auris 

Mulcebant Zephyri natos sine semine flores. 

Mox etiam fruges tellus inarata ferebat; 

Nec renovatus ager gravidis canebat aristis. 

Flumina jam laetis, jam flumina nectaris ibant; 

Flavaque de viridi stillabant ilice rnella.”* 

That golden age is the Intelligible World, the eternal Thought 
of eternal Intelligence. 

A word or two on this Alexandrian voug. It is Thought ab 
stracted from all thinking: it does not reason ; for to reason is 
to acquire a knowledge of something: he who reasons, arrives 
at a consequence from his premises, which he did not see in 
those premises without effort. But God sees the consequence 

* “ The flowers unsown in fields and meadows reigned; 

And western winds immortal spring maintained. 

In following years the bearded corn ensued 
From earth unasked ; nor was that earth renewed. 

From veins of valleys milk and nectar broke, 

And honey sweating from the pores of oak.”— Dryden’s Ovid 



THE ALEXANDRIAN TRINITY. 


323 


simultaneously with the premises. Ilis knowledge resembles our 
knowledge as hieroglyphic writing resembles our written lan¬ 
guage : that which we discursively develop, he embraces at once. 

This vovg is at the same time the eternal existence, since all 
Ideas are united in it. It is the voTja'js voyjtfsug voyo'is of Aristotle,— 
or, to use the language of Plotinus, is the Sight Seeing, the iden¬ 
tity of the act of seeing with the object seen : s'tfrj yap tj vdrjtf ig 
opurfis opojtfa, cqxqpw to sv, —a conception which will at once be 
understood by recurring to our illustration of the identity of 
Knowledge and Being, given above. 

One would fancy that this was a degree of abstraction to sat¬ 
isfy the most ardent dialectician ; to have analyzed thus far, and 
to have arrived at pure Thought and pure Existence—the Thought 
apart from Thinking and the Existence apart from its modes— 
would seem the very limit of human ingenuity, the last abstrac¬ 
tion possible. But no: the dialectician is not yet contented : 
he sees another degree of abstraction still higher, still simpler: 
he calls it Unity. God, as Existence and Thought, is God as 
conceived by human intelligence : but, although human intelli¬ 
gence is unable to embrace any higher notion of God, yet is there 
in human intelligence a hint of its own weakness and an as¬ 
surance of God’s being something ineffable, incomprehensible. 
God is not, en derniere analyse , Existence and Thought. What 
is Thought ? What is its type ? The type is evidently human 
reason. What does an examination of human reason reveal ? 
This :—To think is to be aware of some object from which the 
thinker distinguishes himself. To think is to have a self-con¬ 
sciousness, to distinguish one’s personality from that of all other 
objects, to determine the relation of self to not-self. But nothing 
is external to God : in him there can be no distinction, no determi¬ 
nation, no relation. Therefore God, in his highest hypostasis, can¬ 
not think, cannot be thought, but must be something superior to 
thought. Hence, the necessity for a third hypostasis, which third 
in the order of discovery is first in the order of being: it is Unity,— 
ro sv a-rXcCv. 


324 


ANTAGONISM OF CHRISTIANITY, ETC. 


The Unity is not Existence, neither is it Intelligence—it is 
superior to both : it is superior to all action, to all determina¬ 
tion, to all knowledge; for, in the same way as the multiple is 
contained in the simple , the many in the one, in the same way is 
the simple contained in the unity; and it is impossible to dis¬ 
cover the truth of things until we have arrived at this absolute 
unity; for, how can we conceive any existing thing except by 
unity ? What is an individual, an animal, a plant, but that 
unity which presides over multiplicity ? What even is multi¬ 
plicity—an army, an assembly, a flock—when not brought under 
unity ? Unity is omnipresent; it is the bond which unites even 
the most complex things. The Unity which is absolute, immu¬ 
table, infinite, and self-sufficing is not the numerical unit, not the 
indivisible point. It is the absolute universal One in its perfect 
simplicity. It is the highest degree of perfection—the ideal 
Beauty, the supreme Good, ^pwrov dyufiov. 

God therefore in his absolute state—in his first and highest 
Hypostasis—is neither Existence nor Thought, neither moved 
nor mutable: he is the simple Unity, or, as Hegel would say, 
the Absolute Nothing, the Immanent Negative. Our readers 
will perhaps scarcely be patient under this infliction of dialec¬ 
tical subtlety; but we beg them to remember that the absurdities 
of genius are often more instructive than the discoveries of com¬ 
mon men, and the subtleties and extravagances of the Alexan¬ 
drians are fraught with lessons. If rigorous logic conducted 
eminent minds to conceptions which appear extravagant and 
sterile, they may induce in us a wholesome suspicion of the effi¬ 
cacy of that logic to solve the problems it is occupied with. Nor 
is the lesson inapplicable to our age. The present enthusiasm 
for German Literature and German Philosophy will of course 
turn the attention of many young minds to the speculations in 
which Germany is so rife; we are consequently more interested 
in Plotinus, because he agitates similar questions and affords very 
similar answers. The German Metaphysicians resemble Plotinus 
more than Plato or Aristotle : nor is the reason difficult of dis- 


THE ALEXANDRIAN TRINITY. 


325 


eovery. Plotinus, coming after all the great thinkers had asked 
almost every metaphysical question and given almost every pos¬ 
sible answer, was condemned either to skepticism or to accept 
any consequences of his dialectics, however extreme. Philosophy 
was in this dilemma—either to abdicate, or to be magnificently 
tyrannical: it chose to be the latter. Plotinus therefore shrank 
from no extravagances : where Reason failed, there he called 
upon Faith. The Germans, coming after the secure establish¬ 
ment of Positive Science, found Philosophy in a similar dilemma: 
either to declare itself incapable, or to proclaim its despotism 
and infallibility: what Logic demonstrated must be absolutely 
true. 

This faith in logic is remarkable, and may be contrasted with 
the Alexandrian faith in Ecstasy. Of the possibility of human 
logic not being the standard of truth, the Germans have no sus¬ 
picion ; they are without the Greek skepticism as to the Crite- 
rium. They proceed with peaceable dogmatism to tell you that 
God is this, or that; to explain how the Nothing becomes the 
Existing world, to explain many other inexplicable things; and, 
if you stop them with the simple inquiry, IIow do you know 
this? what is your ground of certitude? they smile, allude 
blandly to Vernunft, and continue their exposition. 

Plotinus was wiser, though less consequent. He said, that 
although Dialectics raise us to some conviction of the existence 
of God, we cannot speak of his nature otherwise than negatively : 
ev d^aipstfsi -ravra rd irepi rourov Xs^ofxsva. We are forced to ad¬ 
mit his existence, though it is not correct to speak even of his 
existence. To say that he is superior to Existence and Thought, 
is not to define him; it is only to distinguish him from what he 
is not. What he is we cannot know ; it would be ridiculous to 
endeavor to comprehend him. This difference apart, there is 
remarkable similarity in the speculations of the Alexandrians 
and the modern Germans : a similarity which all will detect who 
are capable of detecting identity of thought under diversity of 
language. 


326 


ANTAGONISM OF CHRISTIANITY, ETC. 


To return to the Alexandrian Trinity, we see in it the Perfect 
Principle, the One, to sv atfXouv, which generates, but is ungen¬ 
erated ; the Principle generated by the Perfect, is of all gener¬ 
ated things the most perfect: it is therefore Intelligence—vou£. 
In the same way as Intelligence is the Word (Koyog) of the One 
and the manifestation of its power, so also the Soul is the 
Word and manifestation of the Intelligence, oiov xai tj Xoyog 

vou. The three Hypostases of the Deity are therefore, 1st, the 
Perfect, the Absolute Unity, to sv a <rXouv; 2d, the First Intel 
ligence, to vouv tfpurug] 3d, the Soul of the world. 

This Trinity is very similar to the threefold nature of God in 
Spinoza’s system. Spinoza says, that God is the infinite Exist¬ 
ence, having two infinite Attributes—Extension and Thought. 
Now this Existence, which has neither Extension nor Thought, 
except as Attributes, although verbally differing from the Abso¬ 
lute Unconditioned, the One, of Plotinus, is, in point of feet, 
the same : it is the last abstraction which human logic can 
make: it is that of ivhich nothing can be predicated, and yet 
which must be the final predicate of every thing: division and 
subdivision, however prolonged, stop there, and admit as final 
the Unconditioned Unconditional Something; that which Pro- 
clus calls the Non-Being, [x?j ov, although it is not correct to call 
it nothing, (xrjSsv. 

This conception, which it is impossible to state in words with¬ 
out stating gross contradictions, is the result of rigorous logic, 
reasoning from false premises. The process is this: I have to 
discover that which is at the bottom of the mystery of exist¬ 
ence—the great First Cause; and to do this, I must eliminate, 
one by one, every thing which does not present itself as self-ex¬ 
isting, self-sufficing, as necessarily the first of all things, the 
dp X y. 

The ancients began their speculations in the same way, but 
with less knowledge of the conditions of inquiry. Hence, Water, 
Air, Soul, Number, Force, were severally accepted as Principia ,. 
In the time of the Alexandrians somethino; more subtle was 

O 


THE ALEXANDRIAN TRINITY. 


327 


required. They asked the same question, but they asked it 
with a full consciousness of the failure of their predecessors. 
Even Thought would not satisfy them as a Principium; nor 
were they better satisfied with abstract Existence. They said 
there is something beyond Thought, something beyond Exist¬ 
ence : there is that which thinks, that which exists. This “ that” 
this Indeterminate Ineffable, is the Principium. It is self-suf¬ 
ficing, self-existent; nothing can be conceived beyond it. In the 
old Indian hypothesis of the world being supported by an ele¬ 
phant, who stood on the back of a tortoise, the tortoise standing 
on nothing, we see a rude solution of the same problem: the 
mind is forced to arrest itself somewhere, and wherever it ar¬ 
rests itself it is forced to declare, explicitly or implicitly, that it 
stops at Nothing; because, as soon as it predicates any thing of 
that at which it stops, it is forced to admit something beyond: 
if the tortoise stands on the back of some other animal, upon 
what does that other animal stand ? 

Human logic, when employed upon this subject, necessarily 
abuts upon Nothing, upon absolute Negation; the terms in 
which this conception is clothed may differ, but the conception 
remains the same: Plotinus and Hegel shake hands. 

In reviewing the history of Greek speculation, from the 
“ Water” of Thales to the “Absolute Negation” of Plotinus, what 
a reflection is forced upon us of the vanity of metaphysics! So 
many years of laborious inquiry, so many splendid minds en¬ 
gaged, and, after the lapse of ages, the inquiry remains the 
same, the answer only more ingeniously absurd! Was, then, 
all this labor vain? Were those long, laborious years, all 
wasted ? Were those splendid minds all useless? No : earnest 
endeavor is seldom without result. Those centuries of specula¬ 
tion were not useless, they were the education of the human 
race* They taught mankind this truth, at least: the Infinite 
cannot be known by the finite; and man, as finite, can only 
know phenomena. Those labors, so fruitless in their immediate 
object, have indirect lessons. The speculations of the Greeks 


323 


ANTAGONISM OF CHRISTIANITY, ETC. 


preserve the same privilege as the glorious products of their art 
and literature; they are the models from which the speculations 
of posterity are reproductions. The history of modern meta¬ 
physical philosophy, is but the narrative of the same struggles 
which agitated Greece. The same problems are revived, and the 
same answers offered. 

§ IV. The Doctrine of Emanation. 

Metaphysics propounds three questions: Has human knowl¬ 
edge any absolute certainty ? What is the nature of God ? What 
is the origin of the World ? 

Our review of the various attempts to answer these questions, 
has ended in the Alexandrian School, which answered them as 
follows: 1st. Human knowledge is necessarily uncertain; but 
this difficulty is got over by the hypothesis of an Ecstasy, in 
which the soul becomes identified with the Infinite. 2d. The 
Nature of God is a triple Unity—three hypostases of the One 
Being. 3d. The origin of the world is the law of JEmanation. 

This third answer is of course implied in the second. God, 
as Unity, is not Existence; but he becomes Existence by the 
Emanation from his Unity (Intelligence), and by the second em¬ 
anation from his Intelligence (Soul), and this Soul, in its mani¬ 
festations, is the World. 

Hitherto dualism has been the universal creed of those who 
admitted any distinction between the world and its creator. 
Jupiter, organizing Chaos; the God of Anaxagoras, whose force 
is wasted in creation; the firiiuovpyog of Plato, who conquers and 
regulates Matter and Motion; the immovable Thought of Aris¬ 
totle : all these creeds were dualistic; and, indeed, to escape 
dualism was no easy task. 

If God is distinct from the World, dualism is at once assumed. 
If he is distinct, he must be distinct in Essence. If distinct in 
essence, the question of Whence came the world? is not an¬ 
swered ; for the world must have existed contemporaneously 
with nim. 


THE DOCTKINE OF EMANATION. 


329 


Here lies tlie difficulty: either God made the world, or he did 
not. If he made it, whence did he make it ? He could not, 
said logic, make it out of Nothing; for nothing can come of 
Nothing; he must, therefore, have made it out of his own sub¬ 
stance. If it is made out of his own substance, then it is iden¬ 
tical with him : it must, then, have existed already in him, or he 
could not have produced it. But this identification of God with 
the world is Pantheism; and begs the question it should answer. 

If he did not make it out of his own substance, he must have 
made it out of some substance already existing; and thus, also, 
the question still remains unanswered. 

This problem was solved by the Christians and Alexandrians 
in a similar, though apparently different, manner. The Chris¬ 
tians said that God created the world out of Nothing by the 
mere exercise of his omnipotent will; for to Omnipotence every 
thing is possible; one thing is as easy as another. The Alex¬ 
andrians said that the world was distinct from God in act rather 
than in essence: it was the manifestation of his will or of his 
intelligence. 

o 

Thus the world is God; but God is not the world. Without 
the necessity of two principles, the distinction is preserved between 
the Creator and the Created. God is not confounded with Mat¬ 
ter ; and yet Philosophy is no longer oppressed wfith the difficul¬ 
ty of accounting for two eternally existing and eternally distinct 
principles. 

Plotinus had by his Dialectics discovered the necessity of 
Unity as the basis of existence: he had also by the same means 
discovered that the Unity could not possibly remain alone: other¬ 
wise there would never have been the Many. If the Many im¬ 
plies the One, the One also implies the Many. It is the property 
of each principle to engender that which follows it: to engender 
it in virtue of an ineffable power which loses nothing of itself. 
This power, ineffable, inexhaustible, exercises itself without stop¬ 
ping, from generation to generation, till it attains the limits of 
possibility. 


330 ANTAGONISM OF CHRISTIANITY", ETC. 

By this law, which governs the world, and from which God 
himself cannot escape, the totality of existences, which Dialectics 
teach us to arrange in a proper hierarchy from God to sensible 
Matter, appear to us thus united in one indissoluble chain, since 
each being is the necessary product of that which precedes it, 
and the necessary producer of that which succeeds it. 

If asked why Unity should ever become Multiplicity—why God 
should ever manifest himself in the world? the answer is ready: 
The One, as conceived by the Eleatics, had long been found in¬ 
complete ; for a God who had no intelligence could not be per¬ 
fect : as Aristotle says, a God who does not think is unworthy 
of respect. If, therefore, God is Intelligent, he is necessarily ac¬ 
tive : a force that engenders nothing, can that be a real force ? 
It was, therefore, in the very nature of God a necessity for him 
to create the world : iv rij (portsi tjv <ro iroisTv. 

God, therefore, is in his very essence a Creator, flronjrfe. He 
is like a Sun pouring forth his rays, without losing any of its 
substance : oiov ix (purog, rrjv ig aurov <irsp iXa/x-vJav. All this flux — 
this constant change of things, this birth and death—is but the 
restless manifestation of a restless force. These manifestations 
have no absolute truth, no duration. The individual perishes, 
because individual: it is only the universal that endures. The 
individual is the finite, the perishable; the universal is the infinite, 
immortal. God is the only existence: he is the real existence, 
of which we, and other things, are but the transitory phenomena. 
And yet timid ignorant man fears death! timid because ignorant. 
To die is to live the true life: it is to lose, indeed, sensation, pas¬ 
sions, interests, to be free from the conditions of space and time,— 
to lose personality; but it is also to quit this world and to be 
born anew in God,—to quit this frail and pitiable individuality, 
to be absorbed in the being of the Infinite. To die is to live the 
true life. Some faint glimpses of it—some overpowering anti¬ 
cipations of a bliss intolerable to mortal sense, are realized in the 
brief moments of Ecstasy, wherein the Soul is absorbed in the 
Infinite, although it cannot long remain there. Those momenta 


THE DOCTRINE OF EMANATION. 


331 


so exquisite yet so brief are sufficient to reveal to us the divinity, 
and to show us that deep imbedded in our personality there is a 
ray of the divine source of light, a ray which is always struggling 
to disengage itself, and return to its source. To die is to live the 
true life : and Plotinus dying, answered, in his agony, to friendly 
questions: “ I am struggling to liberate the divinity within me.” 

This mysticism is worth attention, as indicative of the march 
of the human mind. In many preceding thinkers we have seen 
a very strong tendency towards the desecration of personality. 
From Heraclitus to Plotinus there is a gradual advance in this 
direction. The Cynics and the Stoics made it a sort of philo¬ 
sophical basis. Plato implicitly, and sometimes explicitly, gave 
it his concurrence. The conviction of man’s insignificance, and 
of the impossibility of his ever in this world ascertaining the 
truth, seem to have oppressed philosophers with self-contempt. 
To curse the bonds which bound them to ignorance, and to quit a 
world in which they were thus bound, were the natural conse¬ 
quences of their doctrines; but, linked mysteriously as we are to 
life—even to the life we curse—our doctrines seldom lead to sui¬ 
cide. In default of suicide, nothing remained but Asceticism— 
a moral suicide. As man could not summon courage to quit the 
world, he would at least endeavor to lead a life as far removed 
from worldly passion and worldly condition as was possible; and 
he would welcome death as the only true life. 


CHAPTER III. 


PEOCLUS. 

Plotinus attempted to unite Philosophy with Religion, at¬ 
tempted to solve by Faith the problems insoluble by Reason; and 
the result of such an attempt was necessarily mysticism. But, 
although the mystical element is an important one in his doc¬ 
trine, he did not allow himself to be seduced into all the extrav¬ 
agances which naturally flowed from it. That was reserved for 
his successors, Iamblicus in particular, who performed miracles, 
and constituted himself High Priest of the Universe. 

With Proclus the Alexandrian School made a final effort, and 
with him its defeat was entire. He was born at Constantinople, 
a. d. 412. He came early to Alexandria, where Olympiodorus 
was teaching. He passed onwards to Athens, and from Plutarch 
and Syrianus he learnt to comprehend the doctrines of Plato and 
Aristotle. Afterwards, becoming initiated into the Theurgical 
mysteries, he was soon made a High Priest of the Universe. 

The theological tendency is still more visible in Proclus than 
in Plotinus. He regarded the Orphic poems and the Chaldean 
oracles as divine revelations, and, therefore, as the real source ot 
philosophy, if properly interpreted; and in this allegorical inter¬ 
pretation consisted his whole system. 

“ The intelligible forms of ancient poets, 

The fair humanities of old religion, 

The Power, the Beauty, and the Majesty, 

That had her haunts in dale, or piny mountain, 

Or forest by slow stream, or pebbly spring, 

Or chasms and wat’ry depths ; all these have vanish’d, 

They live no longer in the faith of reason ! 

But still the heart doth need a language, still 
Doth the old instinct bring back the old names. 

And to yon starry world they now are gone, 


PROCLUS. 


333 


Spirits or Gods that used to share this earth 
With man as with their friend.”* 

To breathe the breath of life into the nostrils of these defunct 
deities, to restore the beautiful Pagan creed, by interpreting its 
symbols in a new sense, was the aim of the whole Alexandrian 
School. 

Proclus placed Faith above Science. It was the only faculty 
by which The Good, that is to say, The One, could be appre¬ 
hended. “ The Philosopher,” said he, “ is not the Priest of one 
Religion, but of all Religionsthat is to say, he is to reconcile 
ail modes of Belief by his interpretations. Reason is the Ex¬ 
positor of Faith. But Proclus made one exception : there was 
one Religion which he could not tolerate, which he would not 
interpret,—that was the Christian. 

With this conception of his mission, it is easy to see that his 
method must be eclectic. Accordingly, in mating Philosophy 
the expositor of Religion, he relied upon the doctrines of his pre¬ 
decessors without pretending to discover new ones for his pur¬ 
pose. Aristotle, whom he called “ the Philosopher of the under¬ 
standing,” he regarded as the man whose writings formed the best 
introduction to the study of wisdom. In him the student learnt 
the use of his Reason; learnt also the forms of thought. After 
this preparatory study came the study of Plato, whom he called 
the “Philosopher of Reason,” the sole guide to the region of 
Ideas, that is, of Eternal Truths. The reader will probably rec¬ 
ognize here the distinction between Understanding and Reason, 
revived by Kant, and so much insisted on by Coleridge and his 
followers. 

Plato was the idol of Proclus; and the passionate disciple 
thought every word of the master an oracle; he discovered every 
where some hidden and oracular meaning, interpreting the sim¬ 
plest recitals into sublime allegories. Thus the affection of Soc¬ 
rates for Alcibiades became the slender text for a whole volume 
of mystical exposition. 


* Coleridge, in his translation of the Piccolomini. 
24 



334 


PROCLUS. 


It is curious to notice the transformations of philosophy in the 
various schools. Socrates interpreted the inscription on the tem¬ 
ple at Delphi, “ Know thyself,” as an exhortation to psychologi¬ 
cal and ethical study. He looked inwards, and there discovered 
certain truths which skepticism could not darken; and he dis¬ 
coursed, says his biographer, on Justice and Injustice, on things 
holy and things unholy. 

Plato also looked inwards, hoping to find there a basis of phi¬ 
losophy; but his “Know thyself” had a different signification. 
Man was to study himself, because, by becoming thoroughly ac¬ 
quainted with his mind, he would become acquainted with the 
eternal Ideas of which sense awakened Reminiscence. His self- 
knowledge was Dialectical, rather than Ethical. The object of 
it was the contemplation of eternal Existence, not the regulation 
of our worldly acts. 

The Alexandrians also interpreted the inscription; but with 
them the Socratic conception was completely set aside, and the 
Platonic conception carried to its limits. “ Know thyself,” says 
Proclus, in his commentary on Plato’s First Alcibiades , “ that 
you may know the essence from whose source you are derived. 
Know the divinity that is within you, that you may know the 
divine One of which your soul is but a ray. Know your own 
mind, and you will have the key to all knowledge.” These are 
not the words of Proclus, but they convey the meaning of many 
pages of his enthusiastic dialectics. 

We are struck in Proclus with the frank and decided manner 
in which Metaphysics is assumed to be the only possible science; 
we are struck with the naive manner in which the fundamental 
error of metaphysical inquiry is laid open to view, and presented 
as an absolute truth. In no other ancient system is it stated so 
nakedly. If we desired an illustration of the futility of meta¬ 
physics we could not find a better than is afforded by Proclus, 
who, be it observed, only pushed the premises of others to their 
rigorous conclusions. 

He teaches that the hierarchy of ideas, in which there is a 


rROCLUS. 


335 


gradual generation from the most abstract to the most concrete, 
exactly corresponds with the hierarchy of existences, in which 
.here is a constant generation from the most abstract (Unity) to 
to the most concrete (phenomena): so that the relations which 
these ideas bear to each other, the laws which subordinate one 
to the other—in a word, the forms of the nomenclature of human 
conceptions—express the real causes, their action, their combina¬ 
tions ; in fact, the whole system of the universe.* 

This is frank. The objection to the metaphysician has been 
that he looks inwards to discover that which lies without him, 
hoping, in his own conceptions of that which he is seeking to 
know, to find the thing he seeks. We “philosophers of the Un¬ 
derstanding” aver that to analyze your mind is to learn the 
nature of your miud: nothing else. Proclus boldly assumes 
that to know the nature of your own mind is to know the wdiole 
universe. This is at least consistent. But one might reasonably 
ask how this knowledge is to be gained ? not simply by looking 
inwards, or else all philosophers would have gained it; not even 
by meditation. How then ? Listen : 

“ Mercury, the Messenger of Jove, reveals to us Jove’s paternal 
will, and thus teaches us science; and, as the author of all in¬ 
vestigation, transmits to us, his disciples, the genius of invention. 
The Science which descends into the soul from above is more 
perfect than any science obtained by investigation; that which 
is excited in us by other men is far less perfect. Invention is the 
energy of the soul. The Science which descends from above fills 
the soul w T ith the influence of the higher Causes. The Gods an- 
nounce it to us by their presence and by illuminations, and dis¬ 
cover to us the order of the universe.” 

Of course the Mystic who had revelations from above, dis¬ 
pensed with the ordinary methods of investigation; and here 
again we see Proclus consistent, though consistent in absurdity. 


* This is also the doctrine of Hegel. 



CONCLUSION OF ANCIENT PHILOSOPHY. 


With Proclus the Alexandrian School expired; with him 
Philosophy ceased. Religion, and Religion only, seemed capa¬ 
ble of affording satisfactory answers to the questions which per¬ 
plexed the human race, and Philosophy was reduced to the 
subordinate office w r hich the Alexandrians had consigned to the 
Aristotelian Logic. Philosophy became the servant of Religion, 
no longer reigning in its own right. 

Thus was the circle of endeavor completed. With Thales, 
Reason separated itself from Faith; with the Alexandrians, the 
two were again united. The centuries between these epochs 
were filled with helpless struggles to overcome an insuperable 
difficulty. 

The difference is great between the childlike question of the 
Ionian thinker, and the naive extravagance of the Alexandrian 
Mystic : and yet each stands upon the same ground, and looks 
out upon the same troubled sea, hoping to detect a shore, igno¬ 
rant that all philosophy 

“ is an arch where through 
Gleams that untravelled world, whose margin fades 
Forever and forever as we move.” 

But, to the reflective student who thus sees these men, after cen¬ 
turies of endeavor, fixed on the self-same spot, the Alexandrian 
straining his eager eyes after the same object as the Ionian, and 
neither within the possible range of vision, there is something 
which would be unutterably sad, were it not corrected by the 
conviction that these men were fixed to one spot, because they 
had not discovered the only true pathway, a pathway which those 
who came after them securely trod. 

Still, the spectacle of human failure, especially on so gigantic 


CONCLUSION OF ANCIENT PHILOSOPHY. 337 

a scale, cannot be without some pain. So many hopes thwarted, 
so many great intellects wandering in error, are not to be thought 
of without sadness. But it bears a lesson which we hope those 
who have followed us thus far will not fail to read : a lesson on 
the vanity of Philosophy; a lesson which almost amounts to a 
demonstration of the impossibility of the human mind ever com¬ 
passing those exalted objects which its speculative ingenuity sug¬ 
gests as worthy of its pursuit. It points to that profound remark 
of Auguste Comte, that there exists in all classes of our investi¬ 
gations a constant and necessary harmony between the extent 
of our real intellectual wants, and the efficient extent, actual or 
future, of our real knowledge. 

But these great Thinkers, whose failures we have chronicled, 
did not live in vain. They left the great problems where they 
found them: but they did not leave Humanity as they found it. 
Metaphysics might be still a region of doubt; but the human 
mind, in its endeavors to explore that region, had learnt in some 
measure to ascertain its weakness and its force. Greek Philoso¬ 
phy was a failure; but Greek Inquiry had immense results. 
Methods had been tried and discarded; but great preparations 
for the real Method had been made. 

Moreover, Ethics had become elevated to the rank of a science. 
In the Pagan Religion morality consisted in obeying the particu¬ 
lar Gods: to propitiate their favor was the only needful art. 
Greek Philosophy opened men’s eyes to the importance of hu¬ 
man conduct—to the importance of moral principles, which were 
to stand in the place of propitiations. The great merit of this 
is due to Socrates. He objected to propitiation as impious: he 
insisted upon moral conduct as alone guiding man to happiness 
here and hereafter. 

But the Ethics of the Greeks were at the best narrow and 
egoistical. Morality, however exalted or comprehensive, only 
seemed to embrace the individual; it was extremely incomplete 
as regards the family; and had scarcely any suspicion of what 
we call social relations. No Greek ever attained the sublimity 


338 


CONCLUSION OF ANCIENT PHILOSOPHY. 


of such a point of view. The highest point he could attain was 
to conduct himself according to just principles; he never troubled 
himself with others. By the introduction of Christianity, Ethics 
became Social, as well as Individual. 

So far advanced are we in the right direction—so earnestly 
are we engaged in the endeavor to perfect Social as w r ell as In¬ 
dividual Ethics—that we are apt to look down upon the progress 
of the Greeks as trivial; but it was immense, and in the history 
of Humanity must ever occupy an honorable place. 

Ancient Philosophy expired with Proclus. Those who came 
after him, although styling themselves philosophers, were in 
truth Religious Thinkers employing philosophical formulae. No 
one endeavored to give a solution of the three great problems: 
Whence came the world ? What is the nature of God ? What 
is the nature of human knowledge ? Argue, refine, divide, and 
subdivide as they would, the Religious Thinkers only used Phi¬ 
losophy as a subsidiary process: for all the great problems, Faith 
was their only instrument. 

The succeeding Epochs are usually styled the Epochs of Chris¬ 
tian Philosophy; yet Christian Philosophy is a misnomer. A 
Christian may be also a Philosopher; but to talk of Christian 
Philosophy is an abuse of language. Christian Philosophy 
means Christian Metaphysics; and that means the solution of 
metaphysical problems upon Christian principles. Now what 
are Christian Principles but the Doctrines revealed through Christ ; 
revealed because inaccessible to Reason; revealed and accepted 
by Faith, because Reason is utterly incompetent ? 

So that metaphysical problems, the attempted solution of 
which by Reason constitutes Philosophy, are solved by Faith, 
and yet the name of Philosophy is retained! But the very es¬ 
sence of Philosophy consists in reasoning, as the essence of Re¬ 
ligion is Faith. There cannot, consequently, be a Religious Phi¬ 
losophy : it is a contradiction in terms. Philosophy may be 
occupied about the same problems as Religion; but it employs 
altogether different Methods, and depends on altogether different 


CONCLUSION OF ANCIENT PHILOSOPHY. 


339 


principles. Religion may, and should, call in Philosophy to its 
aid ; but in so doing it assigns to Philosophy only the subordinate 
office of illustrating, reconciling, or applying its dogmas. This 
is not a Religious Philosophy; it is Religion and Philosophy, 
the latter stripped of its boasted prerogative of deciding for itself, 
and allowed only to employ itself in reconciling the decisions of 
Religion and of Reason. 

From these remarks it is obvious that our History, being a 
narrative of the progress of Philosophy only, will not include 
any detailed account of the so-called Christian Philosophy, be¬ 
cause that is a subject strictly belonging to the History of Re¬ 
ligion. 

Once more we are to witness the mighty struggle and the sad 
defeat; once more we are to watch the progress and develop¬ 
ment of that vast but ineffectual attempt which the sublime 
audacity of man has for centuries renewed. Great intellects and 
great hopes are once more to be reviewed; and the traces noted 
which they have left upon that Desert whose only semblance of 
vegetation is a mirage,—the Desert without fruit, without flower, 
without habitation: arid, trackless, and silent, but vast, awful, 
and fascinating. To trace the footsteps of the wanderers—to fol¬ 
low them on their gigantic journeys—to point again the moral of 

“Poor Humanity’s afflicted will 
Struggling in vain with ruthless destiny,” 

to bring home to the convictions of men the humble, useful 
truth that 

“Wisdom is ofttimes nearer when we stoop, 

Than when we soar,” 

will be the object of our Second Part. 













































. 












. 










MODERN PHILOSOPHY. 








TRANSITION PERIOD. 


FROM PROCLUS TO BACON. 

§ I. Scholasticism. 

Although Modern Philosophy, rigorously defined, commences 
with Bacon and Descartes, from whom a distinct development is 
traceable, such as the purpose of this History requires, w r e must 
not pass from Proclus to Bacon without at least a rapid glance 
at the course of speculative activity during the intervening twelve 
centuries. Mediaeval Philosophy has been much decried and 
much exalted, but very little studied. So vast a subject demands 
a patience and erudition few can bring to it. Fortunately for 
me, whose knowledge of Scholasticism is limited to a superficial 
acquaintance with some of the works of Aquinas, Abelard, and 
Averroes, the nature of this History excludes any detailed exam¬ 
ination of mediaeval speculations. Consulting my own resources 
and the reader’s interest, I find that the whole career of philo¬ 
sophic inquiry, from Proclus to Bacon, can be presented in three 
typical figures: namely, Abelard, as representing Scholasticism ; 
Algazzali, as representing Arabian philosophy; and Giordano 
Bruno, as representing the philosophic struggle w r hich overthrew 
the authority of Aristotle and the Church. These three thinkers 
I have studied more or less in their own writings; and the 
reader will understand, therefore, that the following sketch is 
wholly drawn from second-hand knowledge in all but these three 
instances. 

With the Alexandrians, Philosophy, as we have seen, became 
absorbed in Religion. The Alexandrians w r ere succeeded by the 
Christian Fathers, who of course made Philosophy the handmaid 


FROM PROCLUS TO BACON.. 


344 

to Religion —ancilla Theologice. The whole philosophic effort 
was to mediate between the dogmas of faith and the demands of 
reason. Scholasticism derives its name from the schools opened 
by Charlemagne for the prosecution of speculative studies, which 
were only prosecuted in those days by the clergy, they alone 
having leisure or inclination for such work. Thus did the Mon- 
asteries form the cradle of Modern Philosophy.* 

As far as we can separate the philosophic from the theological 
element, it displays itself in three capital manifestations: 1st, The 
debate on Universals; 2d, The influence of the Arabians, espe¬ 
cially in their introduction of the works of Aristotle ; and 3d, 
The rebellion against Aristotle and all other authority, in the 
proclamation of the independence of Reason. 

There was no separation at all until the ninth century, when, 
in the person of Scotus Erigena, Philosophy timidly claimed its 
privilege. And even Scotus Erigena said, “ There are not two 
studies, one of philosophy and one of religion; true philosophy 
is true religion, and true religion is true philosophy.” In the 
eleventh century appeared Roscellinus, who, in advocating the 
philosophic doctrine of Nominalism, not only separated Philos¬ 
ophy from Religion, but placed it in direct antagonism with the 
fundamental dogma of the Trinity. To understand this we must 
remember that in those days there was a profound and even 
servile submission to the double authority of the Church and the 
Greek Philosophers,—a submission necessarily resulting from the 
teaching of the Fathers, who always combined the two. The 
works of Greek Philosophers were, however, but scantily known 
through Latin translations and commentaries ; but this perhaps 
increased the eagerness to know them ; and thus all doctrine be- 


* Victor Cousin, Hist, de la Phil. ii. 9eme Le^on. The various historians 
of Philosophy, especially Ritter and Tennemann, should be consulted; but 
the clearest and most readable work known to me is M. Rousselot’s Etudes 
sur la Philosophie dans le Moyen Age , 3 vols. 8vo. Paris, 1840. M. Remusat’s 
Abelard, 2 vols. Paris, 1845, by its analysis of Abelard’s works, gives also a 
very good idea of Scholastic speculation. 



SCHOLASTICISM. 


345 


came, in fact, erudition. To interpret Aristotle was to establish 
philosophy. It is a common error to suppose that Aristotle at 
once and always reigned despotically over the philosophy of the 
Middle Ages. As M. Rousselot* remarks, there were two dis¬ 
tinct characters in Aristotle then accepted: there was first the 
Logician, whose word was law ,—magister dixit ,—whose Organon 
was the Bible of the schools,—whose authority no one thought 
of questioning; and there was also the Metaphysician, who, so 
far from receiving the worship offered to the Logician, was per¬ 
secuted, excommunicated, and burned, because his metaphysical 
doctrine was thought to contain the fatal heresy of the unity of 
substance.f It was not until after Abelard, and owing to the 
Arabian influence, that Aristotle passed—to use M. Remusat’s 
happy phrase—from the consulship to the dictatorship of Phi¬ 
losophy^ 

Plato taught Realism. lie maintained the existence of Ab¬ 
stract Ideas, as Objects or Substances. Aristotle, on the con¬ 
trary, taught that Abstract Ideas were nothing but abstractions; 
general names , not general things. Early Scholasticism adopted 
Realism ; and when Roscellinus by subtle argumentation proved 
that genera and species were nothing more than logical construc¬ 
tions, general terms, flatus vocis , without corresponding essences, 
it was soon evident that he was in antagonism with the dogma 
of the Trinity. “That Universal which you call Trinity cannot 
exist; and as the relations which unite these three divine persons 
do not exist, the Trinity cannot exist. There is either one God 
or three; if there is but one, he exists in a single person; it 
there are three, there are three beings separate, distinct.” 

The consequence of such heresy may be foreseen. Roscellinus 
was summoned before the Council of Soissons, and there forced 


* Etudes sur la Philos, i. 173. 

t Jourdain, in his erudite work, Pecker ches sur Vage et Vorigine des Tra¬ 
ductions d'Aristote, has placed this condemnation of Aristotle beyond a 
doubt. 

X Abelard, i. 31G. 



346 


FROM PKOCLUS TO BACON. 


publicly to recant. He escaped to England, and perished in 
exile; but the seed he had sown fructified, and Nominalism after¬ 
wards became the reigning doctrine. The amount of verbal 
quibbling and idle distinctions employed on this famous question 
is only greater than that employed on other questions, because of 
its greater importance. No one can form an adequate idea of 
the frivolity and wearisome prolixity of these Schoolmen without 
opening one of their books; and even after having done so, it 
will remain incomprehensible how sane and earnest intellects 
could have contented themselves with such grinding of the air 
in metapliysic mills, unless we understand the error which mis¬ 
led them. The error was in mistaking logical constructions for 
truths, believing ideas to be the correlates of things, so that 
whatever was discernible in the mental combination was neces¬ 
sarily true of external facts. The Schoolmen analyzed the ele¬ 
ments of speech and thought with the pertinacious eagerness now 
employed by chemists in analyzing the elements of bodies. This 
error is the fundamental error, principium et fons , of all meta¬ 
physical speculation; and with an ill grace do metaphysicians 
ridicule the follies of the Schoolmen, who only carried to excess 
the metaphysical Method of unverified Deduction. It may be 
true that Scholastic philosophy was for the most part a dispute 
about words, but it is not for metaphysicians to cast the re¬ 
proach; and the defenders of Scholasticism have an easy task 
when they undertake to show that beneath these verbal disputes 
lay the deepest problems of Ontology. 

§ II. Life of Abelard. 

The name of Abelard has been immortalized by association 
with that ol a noble woman. It is because Heloise loved him, 
that posterity feels interested in him. M. Michelet indeed thinks 
that to Abelard she owes her fame: “without his misfortunes 
she would have remained obscure, unheard of;” and in one sense 
this is true; but true it also is that, without her love, Abelard 
would have long ago ceased to inspire any interest; for his was 


LIFE OF ABELARD. 


347 


essentially a shallow, selfish nature. His popularity was rapid, 
loud, and scandalous. He was fitted for it, lived for it. But 
many a greater name has faded from the memories of men ; 
many a once noisy reputation fails to awaken a single echo in 
posterity. Apart from the consecration of passion and misfor¬ 
tune, there is little in his life to excite our sympathy. Viewed 
in connection with Heloise he must always interest us; viewed 
away from her, he presents the figure of a quick, vivacious, un¬ 
scrupulous, intensely vain Frenchman. But, in several respects, 
he represents the philosophic struggle of the twelfth century; and 
in this light we may consider him. 

He was born in Brittany in 1079, of a noble family, named 
Berenger. The name of Abelard came to him later. His mas¬ 
ter laughingly noticed his superficial manner of passing over 
some studies, filled as he was with others, and said, “ When a 
dog is well filled, he can do no more than lick the bacon.” The 
word to lick , in the corrupt Latin of that day, was bctjare , and 
Bctjolardus became the cognomen of this “ bacon-licking student” 
among his comrades, which he converted into Habelardus , “ se 
vantant ainsi de posseder ce qu’on l’accusait de ne pouvoir pren¬ 
dre.”* In the ancient writers the name is variously spelled, as 
Abailardus, Abaielardus, Abaulardus, Abbajalarius, Baalaurdus, 
Belardus, and in French as Abeillard, Abayelard, Abalard, Abau- 
lard, Abaalary, Allebart, Abulard, Beillard, Baillard, Balard, and 
even Esbaillart; which variations seem to imply that the old 
French writers were as accurate in their spelling of proper names 
as their descendants are in their use of English and German 
names. 

Abelard’s father joined to his knightly accomplishments a taste 
for literature, as literature was then understood; and this taste 


* Abelard , par M. Charles de Eemusat, Paris 1845, p. 13. This valuable 
monograph contains the fullest biography of Abelard and the best analysis 
of his works yet published. Indeed, before M. Cousin published the works 
of Abelard, in 1836, every account of the philosophy of this thinker was ne¬ 
cessarily meagre and erroneous. 



348 


FROM PROCLUS TO BACON. 


became so dominant in the mind of the youth, that he renounced 
the career of arms altogether for that of learning. Dialectics 
was the great science of that day, almost rivalling in importance 
the Theology which it served and disturbed by turns. It was 
an exercise of intellectual ingenuity, for which this youth mani¬ 
fested surprising aptitude. He travelled through various prov¬ 
inces disputing with all comers, like a knight-errant of philoso¬ 
phy, urged thereto by the goading desire of notoriety. This 
love of notoriety was his curse through life. At the age of 
twenty he came to Paris, hoping there to find a fitting opportu¬ 
nity of display—an arena for his powers as a disputant. He at¬ 
tended the lectures of William de Champeaux, the most re¬ 
nowned master of disputation, to whom students flocked from 
all the cities of Europe. The new pupil soon excited attention. 
The beauty of his person, the easy grace of his manner, his mar¬ 
vellous aptitude for learning, and still more marvellous facility of 
expression, soon distinguished him from the rest. The master 
grew proud of his pupil, loved him through his pride, and 
doubtless looked on him as a successor. But it soon became 
evident that the pupil, so quick at learning, did not sit there 
merely to learn; he was waiting for some good opportunity of 
display, waiting to attack his venerable master, whose secret 
strength and weakness he had discovered. The opportunity 
came; he rose up, and in the midst of all the students provoked 
William de Champeaux to discussion, harassed, and finally van¬ 
quished him. Rage and astonishment agitated the students; 
rage and terror the master. The students were indignant be¬ 
cause they clearly saw Abelard’s motive. 

Abelard dates the origin of all his woes from this occasion, 
when he created enmities which pursued him through life; and, 
with a sophistication common to such natures, he attributes the 
enmities to envy at his ability, instead of to the real causes, 
namely, his inordinate vanity and selfishness. For a time, indeed, 
the rupture with his master seemed successful. Although only 
two-and-twenty years of age, he established a school of Philos* 


LIFE OF ABELARD. 


349 


ophy at Melun, which became numerously attended, and spread 
his name far and wide. Emboldened by success, he removed 
his school still nearer to Paris—to Corbeil—in order, as he 
frankly tells us, that he might be more importunate to his old 
master. But his rival was still powerful, aged in science and 
respect. Intense application was necessary, and in the struggle 
Abelard’s overtasked energies gave way. He was commanded 
by the physicians to shut up his school, and retire into the coun¬ 
try for repose and fresh air. 

In two years he returned to Paris, and saw with delight that 
his reputation had not been weakened by absence, but that on the 
contrary his scholars were more eager than ever. Ilis old an¬ 
tagonist, William de Champeaux, had renounced the world, and 
retired to a cloister, where he opened the school of Saint Victor, 
afterwards so celebrated. His great reputation, although suffer¬ 
ing from Abelard’s attacks, drew crowds. One day, when the 
audience was most numerous, he was startled by the appearance 
of Abelard among the Students, come, as he said, to learn rhet¬ 
oric. William was troubled, but continued his lecture. Abe¬ 
lard was silent until the question of “ Universals” was brought 
forward, and then suddenly changing from a disciple to an antag¬ 
onist, he harassed the old man with such rapidity and unexpect¬ 
edness of assault, that William confessed himself defeated, and 
retracted his opinion. That retractation was the death of his in¬ 
fluence. His audience rapidly dwindled. No one would listen 
to the minor points of Dialectics from one who confessed himself 
beaten on the cardinal point of all. The disciples passed over 
to the victor. When the combat is fierce between tw r o lordly 
stags, the hinds stand quietly by, watching the issue of the con¬ 
test, and if their former lord and master, once followed and re¬ 
spected, is worsted, they all without hesitation pass over to the 
conqueror, and henceforth follow him. Abelard’s school became 
acknowledged as pre-eminent; and, as if to give his triumph 
greater emphasis, the professor to whom William de Champeaux 
had resigned his chair, was either so intimidated bv Abelard’s 


350 


FROM PROCLUS TO BACON. 


audacity, or so subjugated by bis ability, that he offered bis cbaii 
to Abelard, and ranged himself among the disciples. 

Abelard was not content even with this victory. Although 
undisputed master in Dialectics, he could not hear of any other 
teacher without envy. A certain Anselm taught Theology at 
Laon with immense success; and this •was enough to trouble 
Abelard’s repose; accordingly to Laon he went, ridiculed An¬ 
selm’s style, laughed at the puerile admiration cf the scholars, 
and offered to surpass the master in the explanation of Scripture. 
The scholars first laughed, then listened, and admired. Abelard 
departed, having excited anarchy in the school, and anguish in 
the heart of the old man. 

His career, at this period, w r as brilliant. His reputation had 
risen above that of every living man. His eloquence and sub¬ 
tlety charmed hundreds of serious students, who thronged be¬ 
neath the shadows of the Cathedral in ceaseless disputation, 
thinking more of success in dispute than of the truths involved. 
M. Guizot estimates these students at not less than five thousand 
—of course not all at the same time. Amidst these crowds, 
Abelard might be seen moving with imposing haughtiness of 
carriage, not without the careless indolence which success had 
given ; handsome, manly, gallant-looking, the object of incessant 
admiration. His songs were sung in the streets, his arguments 
were repeated in cloisters. The multitude reverentially made 
way for him, as he passed; and from behind their window-cur¬ 
tains peeped the curious eyes of women. His name was carried 
to every city in Europe. The Pope sent hearers to him. He 
reigned, and he reigned alone.* 

It was at this period that the charms and helpless position of 
ITeloise attracted his vanity and selfishness. He resolved to se* 
duce her; resolved it, as he confesses, after mature deliberation. 
He thought she would be an easy victim ; and he wdio had lived 


* “Cum jam me solum in mundo superesse philosoplium sestimarem.”— 
Epist. i. p. 9. 



LIFE OF ABELARD. 


351 


.n abhorrence of libertinage —scortorum immunditiam semper ab- 
horrebam —felt that he had now attained such a position that he 
might indulge himself with impunity. We are not here attrib¬ 
uting hypothetic scoundrelism to Abelard; we are but repeat¬ 
ing his own statements. “I thought, too,” he adds, “that I 
should the more easily gain the girl’s consent, knowing as I did 
to how great a degree she both possessed learning aud loved it” 
lie tells us how he “ sought an opportunity of bringing her intc 
familiar and daily intercourse with me, and so drawing her the 
more easily to consent to my wishes. With this view I made a 
proposal to her uncle, through certain of his friends, that he 
should receive me as an inmate of his house, which wa§ very near 
to my school, on whatever terms of remuneration he chose; 
alleging as my reason that I found the care of a household an 
impediment to study, and its expense too burdensome.” The 
uncle, Fulbert, was prompted by avarice, and the prospect of 
gaining instruction for his niece, to consent. He committed her 
entirely to Abelard’s charge, “in order that whenever I should 
be at leisure from the school, whether by day or by night, I 
might take the trouble of instructing her; and should I find her 
negligent, use forcible compulsion. Hereupon I wondered at 
the man’s excessive simplicity, with no less amazement than if I 
had beheld him intrust a lamb to the care of a famishing wolf; 
for in thus placing the girl in my hands for me not only to teach, 
but to use forcible coercion, what did he do but give full liberty 
to my desires, and offer the opportunity, even had it not been 
sought, seeing that, should enticement fail, I might use threats 
and stripes in order to subdue her ?”* 

The crude brutality of this confession would induce us to 
suppose it was a specimen of that strange illusion which often 
makes reflective and analytic minds believe that their enthusiasms 
and passions were calculations, had we not sufficient evidence, 
throughout Abelard’s life, of his intense selfishness and voracious 


* See Epist. i. 



FROM PROCLUS TO BACON. 


9x9 

OO-i 

vanity. "Whatever the motive, the incident is curious ; history 
has no other such example of passionate devotion filling the mind 
of a woman for a dialectician. It was dialectics he taught her; 
since he could teach her nothing else. She was a much better 
scholar than he; in many respects better read. She was perfect 
mistress of Latin, and knew enough Greek and Hebrew to form 
the basis of her future proficiency. He knew nothing of Greek 
or Hebrew, although all his biographers, except M. Remusat, as¬ 
sume that he knew them both ; M. Michelet, even asserting that 
he was the only man who did then know them.* In the study 
of arid dialectics, then, must we imagine Abelard and Heloise 
thrown together; and, in the daily communion of their minds, 
passion ripened, steeped in that vague, dream-like, but intense 
delight, produced by the contact of great intelligences; and thus, 
as the Spanish translator of her letters says, “ buscando siempre 
con pretexto del estudio los parages mas retirados”—they sought 
in the still air and countenance of delightful studies a solitude 
more exquisite than any society. “ The books were open before 
us,” says Abelard, “ but we talked more of love than philosophy, 
and kisses were more frequent than sentences”! 

In spite of the prudential necessity for keeping this intrigue 
secret, Abelard’s truly French vanity overcame his prudence. 
He had written love-songs to Heloise; and with the egotism of 
a bad poet and indelicate lover, he was anxious for these songs 
to be read by other eyes besides those for whom they were com¬ 
posed ; anxious that other men should know his conquest. His 


* He knew a few terms current in the theological literature of the day, hut 
had he known more, his ostentatious vanity would have exhibited the knowl¬ 
edge on all occasions. He expressly declares, moreover, that he was forced 
to read Greek authors in Latin versions. See Cousin’s edition of the (Euvres 
Jnedites , p. 43 ] also Dialectica , p. 200, where the non-existence of Latin ver¬ 
sions is given as the reason of his ignorance of what Aristotle says in his 
Physics and Metaphysics. 

t Epist. i. p. 11. He adds, with his usual crudity; 11 Et stepius ad sinus 
quam ad libros reducebantur manus.” Madame Guizot excellently indicates 
the distinction between his sensual descriptions and the chaster, tLoujj 1 # 
more passionate, language of Heloise; “ elle rappelle , mais ne detaU / pjtni 







LIFE OF ABELARD. 


353 


songs were soon bandied about the streets. All Paris was in 
the secret of his intrigue. That which a delicate lover, out of 
delicacy, and a sensible lover, out of prudence, would have hid¬ 
den from the world, this coxcomb suffered to be profaned by 
being bawled from idle and indifferent mouths.* 

At length even Fulbert became aware of what was passing 
under his roof. A separation took place; but the lovers contin¬ 
ued to meet in secret. Heloise soon found herself pregnant, and 
Abelard arranged for her an escape to Brittany, where she resided 
with his sister, and gave birth to a son. When Fulbert heard of 
her flight, he was frantic with rage. Abelard came cringing to 
him, imploring pardon, recalling to him how the greatest men 
had been cast down by women, accused himself of treachery, and 
offered the reparation of marriage provided it were kept secret; 
because his marriage, if made known, would be an obstacle to 
his rising in the Church, and the mitre already glimmered before 
his ambitious eyes. Fulbert consented. But Heloise, with 
womanly self-abnegation, would not consent. She would not 
rob the world of its greate’st luminary. “ I should hate this mar¬ 
riage,” she exclaimed, “because it would be an opprobrium and 
a calamity.” She recalled to Abelard various passages in Scrip¬ 
ture and ancient writers, in which wives are accursed, pointing 
out to him how impossible it would be for him to consecrate 
himself to philosophy unless he were free ; how could he study 
amid the noises of children and domestic troubles of a house¬ 
hold ? how much more honorable it would be for her to sacrifice 
herself to him! She would be his concubine. The more she- 
humiliated herself for him, the greater would be her claims upon 
his love; and thus she would be no obstacle to his advancement^ 
no impediment to the free development of his genius. 

* That this vanity and indelicacy are eminently French, though unhappily 
not exclusively French, will be admitted by all who are cQnversant with the 
life and literature of that remarkable people. It had not escaped the pier¬ 
cing gaze and healthy instincts of Moliere, who has an admirablo passage on 
this national peculiarity; see Arnolphe’s monologue, act. iii. scene lii. of 
V Ecole des Femmes. 



354 


FROM PROCLUS TO BACON. 


“I call God.to witness,” she wrote many years afterwards, 

i 

that if Augustus, the emperor of the world, had deemed me 
worthy of his hand, and would have given me the universe for a 
throne, the name of your concubine would have been more glori¬ 
ous to me than that of his empress: carius mild et dignius vicle- 
retur tua did meretrix quam illius imperatrix ” 

Gladly would Abelard have profited by this sublime passion ; 
but he was a coward, and his heart trembled before Fulbert. He 
therefore endeavored to answer her arguments; and she, finding 
that his resolution was fixed—a resolution which he very char¬ 
acteristically calls a bit of stupidity, meam stultitiam —burst into 
tears, and consented to the marriage, which w r as performed with 
all secrecy. Fulbert and his servants, however, in violation of 
their oath, divulged the secret. Whereupon Heloise boldly denied 
that she w r as married. The scandal became great; but she per¬ 
sisted in her denials, and Fulbert drove her from the house with 
reproaches. Abelard removed her to the nunnery of Argenteuib 
where she assumed the monastic dress, though without taking 
the veil. Abelard furtively visited her.* Meanwhile Fulbert’s 
suspicions were roused, lest this seclusion in the nunnery should 
be but the first step to her taking the veil, and so ridding Abe¬ 
lard of all impediment. Those were violent and brutal times, but 
the vengeance of Fulbert startled even the Paris of those days 
with horror. W r ith his friends and accomplices, he surprised 
Abelard sleeping, and there inflicted that atrocious mutilation, 
which Origen in a moment of religious frenzy inflicted on him¬ 
self. 

In shame and anguish Abelard sought the refuge of a cloister. 
He became a monk. But the intense selfishness of the man 
would not permit him to renounce the world without also forcing 
Heloise to renounce it. Obedient to his commands, she took the 


* He adds “ Nosti . . . quid ibi tecum mea libidinis egerit intemperantia 
in quadam etiam parte ipsius rcfeetorii. Nosti id impudentissime tunc ac¬ 
tum esse in tarn reverendo loco et summse Virgini consecrato.”— Fpist. v. 
o. 69. 



PHILOSOPHY OF ABELARD. 


r> w ** 

6D0 

veil; tlius once again sacrificing lierself to him whom she had 
accepted as a husband with unselfish regret, and whom she aban¬ 
doned in trembling, to devote herself henceforth without hope, 
without faith, without love, to her divine husband. 

The gates of the convent closed forever on that noble woman 
whose story continues one of pure heroism to the last; but we 
cannot pause to narrate it here. With her disappearance, the 
great interest in Abelard disappears; we shall not therefore de¬ 
tail the various episodes of his subsequent career, taken up for 
the most part with quarrels—first with the monks, whose dis¬ 
soluteness he reproved, next with theologians, whose hatred he 
roused by the “ heresy” of reasoning. He w 7 as condemned pub¬ 
licly to retract; he was persecuted as a heretic; he had ventured 
to introduce Rationalism,—or the explanation of the dogmas of 
Faith by Reason,—and he suffered, as men always suffer for 
novelties of doctrine. He founded the convent of Paraclete, of 
w r hich Heloise w r as the first abbess, and on the 21st of April, 1142, 
he expired, aged sixty-three. “ II vecut dans l’angoisse et mourut 
dans rhumiliation,” says M. de Remusat, “ mais il eut de la gloire 
et il fut aime.” 


§ III. Philosophy of Abelard. 

It would not be difficult to fill a volume with the exposition of 
Abelard’s philosophy; indeed, in M. de Remusat’s work a volume 
and a quarter are devoted to the subject without exhausting it. 
But the nature of this History, and the necessities of space, 
equally force us to be very brief. Abelard’s contributions to the 
development of speculation may all be reduced to two points: 
the question of Universals, and the systematic introduction of 
Reason as an independent element in theology, capable not only 
Dt’ explaining dogmas, but of giving dogmas of its own. 

“ The nature of genera and species has formed perhaps the 
longest and most animated, and certainly the most abstract con¬ 
troversy which has ever agitated the human mind,” says M. de 
Remusat, who adds, “that it is also one which now seems the 
26 


356 


FROM PROCLUS TO BACON. 


least likely to have interested men so deeply.” The same will, 
probably, one day be said of the question of Immaterialism and 
Materialism, a logomachy as great, as animated, and as remote 
from all practical results, as that of Universals, but which, from 
its supposed relation to religious truths, has been made the great 
controversy of the schools. In our day there are few speculators 
who do not believe that important religious principles are indis¬ 
solubly connected with the doctrine of an immaterial principle 
superadded to, and in nowise identical with, the brain; and this 
in spite of the indisputable fact that the early Christian Fathers 
maintained the materiality not only of the soul, but of God him¬ 
self;* in spite also of the many pious moderns of unimpeachable 
orthodoxy who held, and hold, the doctrines stigmatized as Ma¬ 
terialism, and who think with Occam: “Experimur enim quod 
intelligiinus et volumus et nolumus, et similes actus in nobis 
habemus; sed quod ilia sint e formd immateriali et incorrupti- 
bili non experimur , et omnis ratio ad hujus probationem assumpta 
assumit aliquod dubium ”f 

Although, therefore, the intense feeling stirred by the dispute 
respecting Universals appears incomprehensible to us, who con¬ 
sider the dispute to have been a logomachy, for the most part; 
we may render intelligible to ourselves how such a dispute came 
to be so important, by considering the importance now attached 
to the dispute respecting an “ immaterial principle ” Idle or im¬ 
portant, it was the dispute of the Middle Ages; and M. Cousin 
is guilty of no exaggeration in saying “the whole Scholastic 
philosophy issued out of a phrase in Porphyry as interpreted by 
Boethius.” Here is the passage :Intentio Porphyrii est in hoc 
opere facilem intellectum ad pnedicamenta proeparare, tractando 

* Tertullian wrote a work expressly to combat the immaterialism of Plato 
and Aristotle. One sentence will suffice to bear out what is said above re¬ 
specting God : “ Quis autem negabit Deum esse corpus, etsi Deus spiritus ?" 
M. Guizot, in his Lemons sur VHist, de la Civilisation en France , and M. Rous- 
selot’s Etudes sur la Philos, dans le Moyen Age, will furnish the reader with 
other examples. 

t We borrow the passage from Eousselot’s Etudes, iii. 256. 



PHILOSOPHY OF ABELARD. 


357 


de quinque rebus vel vocibus, genere scilicet, specie, differentia, 
proprio et accidenti; quorum cognitio valet ad praedicamentorum 
cognitionem.”* In the phrase rebus vel vocibus he was under¬ 
stood to signify that things and words were mutually convertible; 
to discourse of one or of the other was indifferent; and the ques¬ 
tion turned upon this point: Does the word Genus, or the word 
Species, represent an actual something , existing externally,—or 
is it a mere name which designates a certain collection of indi¬ 
viduals ? The former opinion was held until Roscellinus attacked 
it, and brought forward the heresy of Nominalism with such 
force of argument that, although the heresy was condemned, the 
logic forced its way; and Abelard, when lie attacked the doctrine 
of Realism, taught by William de Champeaux, borrowed so much 
of the Nominalist argument that until quite recently he has been 
called a Nominalist himself. That he was not a pure Nominalist 
is now clear; and M. Rousselot has even made out an ingenious 
case for him as a Realist. But, in truth, he was entirely neither; 
he was something of both; he was a Conceptualise The pe¬ 
culiarity of his doctrine consists in the distinction of Matter and 
Form applied to genus and species. “ Every individual,” he says 
in a very explicit passage of the treatise De Generibus et Specie- 
bus,, printed by M. Cousin, “ is composed of matter and form, i. e. 
Socrates from the matter of Man, and the form of Socratity; so 
Plato is of the same matter, namely that of man, but of different 
form, namely that of Platonity; and so of all other individual 
men. And just as the Socratity which formally constitutes Soc¬ 
rates is nowhere but in Socrates, so the essence of man which 
sustains Socratity in Socrates, is nowhere but in Socrates. The 
same of all other individuals. By species therefore I mean, not 
that essence of man which alone is in Socrates, or in any other 
individual, but, the whole collection which is formed of all the 


* “The object of Porphyry in this work is to prepare tlie mind for the 
easy understanding of the Predicaments, by treating of the five things or 
words, namely, genus, species, ditference, property, and accident; tho 
knowledge of which leads to the knowledge of the Predicaments.” 




358 


FROM PKOCLUS TO BACON. 


individuals of the same nature. This whole collection, although 
essentially multiple, by the Authorities is named one Species, one 
Universal, one Nature; just as a nation, although composed of 
many persons, is called one. Thus each particular essence of the 
collection called Humanity is composed of matter and form, 
namely the animal is matter, the form is however not one, but 
many, i. e. rationality, morality, bipedality, and all the other sub¬ 
stantial attributes. And that which is said of man, namely that 
the part of man which sustains Socratity is not essentially the 
part which sustains Platonity, is true also of the Animal.* For 
the Animal which in me is the form of Humanity, cannot essen¬ 
tially be elsewhere; but there is in it something not different 
from the separate elements of individual animals. Hence, I call 
Genus the multitude of animal essences which sustain the indi¬ 
vidual species of Animal: the multitude diversified by that which 
forms Species. For this latter is only composed by a collection 
of essences which sustain individual forms; Genus, on the con¬ 
trary, is composed by a collection of the substantial differences 
of different Species. . . . The particular essence which forms the 
Genus Animal, results from a certain matter, essence of body, 
and substantial forms, animation and sensibility, which can only 
exist essentially there, although they take indifferently the forms 
of all species of body. This union of essences produces the uni¬ 
versal named Animal Nature.” f 

This passage will give the reader a taste of Abelard’s quality 
when he is least tiresome from it we see clearly enough the kind 
ot reality which he attributed to general terms, in opposition to 
the Nominalists, w r ho taught that terms were only terms; he 
said they were terms which expressed conceptions , and these con- 


* ~V) e must subjoin the original: “ Et sicut de homine dictum est, scilicet 
fjuod illud hominis quod sustinet Socratitatem, illud essentialiter non sus¬ 
tinet Platonitatem, ita de animali. Nam illud animal quod formam humani- 
tatis qua3 in me est, sustinet, illud essentialiter alibi non est, sed illi noc 
differens est et singulis materiis singulorum individuorum animalis.” 
t De Generibus et Speciebus , p. 524. 



PHILOSOPHY OF ABELARD. 


359 


ceptions were based on realities: as when a multitude is con¬ 
ceived under the form of unity, linking together all the actual 
resemblances existing between the individuals. This looks so 
very like Realism, that M. Rousselot may be pardoned for having 
argued at great length the paradoxical thesis of Abelard’s being 
a Realist; but a closer examination of the treatise from which 
we have just cited a long passage, proves that Abelard did not 
deceive himself in maintaining the Realist doctrine to be errone¬ 
ous from his point of view. He maintained that genus and 
species were not general essences existing essentially and inte¬ 
grally in the individuals, whose identity admitted of no other 
diversity than that of individual inodes, or accidents ; which was 
the doctrine of Realism ; for, if this doctrine were true, the sub¬ 
ject of these accidents, the substance of these modes being iden¬ 
tical, every individual would possess the same substance, and 
humanity would only be one man ; thus Socrates being at 
Athens, humanity would be at Athens; but Plato being at 
Thebes, humanity must then either not be at Athens, or Plato 
must not be humanity. • 

Let us quit here the question of Universals, to consider the 
second characteristic of Abelard’s philosophy. It was he who 
gave the form if not the subject-matter of Scholasticism. It was 
he who brought Logic as an independent power into the arena 
of theological debate; a heresy which drew the terrors of the 
Church upon him: Ponit in coelum os suum et scrutatur alia 
Dei , said St. Bernard, writing to the Pope; and the same St. 
Bernard let fall the terrible accusation : “ transgreditur fines quos 
posuerunt patres nostri —he has gone beyond the limits set by 
our forefathers !”—in all ages, in all nations, a mark of repro¬ 
bation. 

Supported, as he thought, by thousands of partisans, Abelard 
assumed an attitude of offence, almost of disdain. Unconscious 
of his real danger, he published the substance of his Lectures in 
a work called Introductio ad Theologiam , in which he undertook 
to demonstrate by Reason the dogmas of Faith, and promulgated 


360 


FROM PROCLUS TO BACON. 


the then audacious opinion, that all dogmas should be presentee 
under a rational form. That this was very far from being ac¬ 
ceptable, may be read not only in his condemnation, but also in 
the passage of his Dialectica , where he says that his rivals de¬ 
clared it not permissible in a Christian to treat even of Dialec¬ 
tics, because Dialectics was not only incapable of instructing any 
one in the faith, but disturbed and destroyed faith by the com¬ 
plication of its arguments.* 

This commencement, feeble though it may have been, marks a 
new epoch in the development of speculation. The struggle of 
Reason against Authority, which began with Abelard, has not 
yet terminated. “ My disciples,” he says in his Introduction, 
“ asked me for arguments drawn from philosophy such as reason 
demanded, begging me to instruct them that they might under¬ 
stand, and not merely repeat what was taught them ; since no 
one can believe any thing until he has first understood it; and it 
is ridiculous to preach to others what neither teacher nor pupil 
understand.” 

Not content with this revolutionary principle, Abelard further 
“transgressed the limits of his forefathers” by the composition of 
the treatise Sic et J\ r on,\ the object of which was to cite the pas¬ 
sages of Scripture and the Fathers pro and con. upon every im¬ 
portant topic : this collocation of contradictory statements given 
by the highest possible authorities was meant, as Abelard dis¬ 
tinctly informs us, to train the mind to vigorous and healthy 
doubt, in fulfilment of the injunction, “ Seek, and ye shall find ; 
knock, and it shall be opened unto you.” “ Dubitando enim ad 
inquisitionem venimus; inquirendo veritatem percipimus; juxta 
quod et Veritas ipsa Quceritc , inquit, invenietis ; pulsate , et ape- 
rietur vobis Whatever liis intention may have been, the re- 


* Dialectica , p. 434. 

t It is printed in Cousin’s edition, but with omissions. The entire work 
was published in Germany, 1841, under this title: Petri Abaelardi Sic a 
Aon • primum integrum ediderunt E. L. Ilenke et G. S. Lindenkohl. 

X Page 17 of the edition just named. 




ALGAZZALI. 


361 


suit of such a work was clearly foreseen by theological teachers, 
who regarded doubt as damnable, and would not tolerate it under 
the plausible aspects of intellectual gymnastics, or the love ot 
seeking for truth. But theologians were unable to arrest the 
development of speculation. Doubt began; disputation waxed 
stronger; logic played like lambent flame around the most sacred 
subjects; Scholasticism entered every city in Europe, and filled 
.t with subtle disputants. 

During the centuries which succeeded, the question of Nomi¬ 
nalism was constantly in debate; and besides it many others so 
remote, and, to modern apprehensions, so frivolous, that few his¬ 
torians boast of more than superficial acquaintance with mediaeval 
philosophy, and few mention it without scorn. To name but 
one topic, what does the reader think of a debate, utrum Deus 
intelligat omnia alia a se per ideas eorum , an aliter ? What 
does he think of men wasting their energies in trying to convince 
each other of the true process by which God conceived ideas—• 
discussing, with ardor and unmisgiving ingenuity, topics which 
are necessarily beyond all possible demonstration ? Nevertheless, 
absurd as such discussions were, they have found, even in modern 
times, legitimate successors; and the laborious futility of the 
Schoolmen has been rivalled by the laborious futility of the Ger¬ 
man metaphysicians. 

We are not here to follow step by step the long course of me¬ 
diaeval speculation, but may pass at once to the Arabian Philos¬ 
ophy as illustrated in Algazzali. 

§ III. Algazzali. 

In our ignorance of Arabian history, it would be presumptuous 
to assert that, until the Greeks became known to them, the Arabs- 
had no philosophy at all of their own ; but whatever they may 
have had, we are only repeating their own avowal in asserting,, 
that after their acquaintance with the Grecian systems, all phil¬ 
osophical energy w r as devoted to the mastery and development 
of those systems. The history of their philosophy is divided intc 


362 


FROM PROCLUS TO BACON. 


two parts : the first comprising the period of ancient thinkers 
the Greeks ; the second comprising the efforts of the Mussulman 
schools. The Greek schools were divided into two series, those 
which preceded and those which succeeded Aristotle.* In the 
first series there is scarcely a name familiar to our ears which 
was not familiar to the Arabian philosophers, Orpheus and 
Homer included. The Seven Sages are constantly alluded to. 
Thales, Anaximenes, Heraclitus, in short all the great thinkers, 
are expounded and commented on, not, according to M. Schmol- 
ders, with any historical or critical accuracy, but at any rate 
sufficiently to show their acquaintance with Greek books. In 
the series succeeding Aristotle they are more at home. They 
translated every work they could procure, and studied with ser¬ 
vile ingenuity to appropriate all the doctrines of the Stagirite. 
Thus it is that Arabian Philosophy lies beside the sphere of 
European development; although the Arabians played an im¬ 
portant part in the development of European culture during the 
Middle Ages, and Averroes and Avicenna were long regarded as 
magistri , no sooner did Europe possess the originals from which 
the Arabs learned, than they neglected these interpreters, and 
interpreted for themselves. 

The work which will form the basis of the present Section is 
one which has the attraction of being entirely original —the his¬ 
tory of a mind developing amid Arabian influences, and not the 
mere reflex of Grecian thought. It is probably owing to the 
originality of this treatise that it was never translated during the 
Middle Ages, the translators of those days caring only for Greek 
Philosophy; and thus, in spite of the high reputation of Algazzali, 
the work was a closed book to all but Arabian scholars, until 1842, 
when a learned German reprinted it with a translation into French.f 

Algazzali, the Light of Islam and Pillar of the Mosque, whc 


* Schmolders, Essai sur les Ecoles Philosophiques chez les Arabes , p. 96. 
t Essai sur les Eccles Philosophiques chez les Arabes. Par M. Schmolders* 
Paris, 1842. From my notice of this work in the Edinburgh Review , April; 
1847, I have incorporated many passages in the present Section. 



ALGAZZALI. 


363 


ander the names of Gazzali, Ghazail, and Algazel is frequently 
mentioned by writers on Arabian Philosophy, and was at one 
time made familiar to Europe by the attacks of his adversary 
Averroes, was horn in the city of Tous, a. d. 1508. He was 
named Abou Hamed Mohammed, and his father was a dealer in 
cotton-thread ( gazzal ), from whence he drew his name. Losing 
his father in early life, he was confided to the care of a South 
The nearest approach to what is meant by a Soufi, is what we 
mean by Mystic. The influence of this Soufi was great. No 
sooner had the youth finished his studies, than he was appointed 
professor of theology at Bagdad, where his eloquence achieved 
such splendid success that all the Imams became his eager parti¬ 
sans. So great was the admiration he inspired, that the Mus¬ 
sulman sometimes said, “ If all Islam were destroyed, it would 
be but a slight loss, provided Algazzali’s work on the ‘ Revivifi¬ 
cation of the Sciences of Religion’ were preserved.” It is this 
work which M. Schmdlders has translated. It bears so remark¬ 
able a resemblance to the Discours sur la Methode of Descartes, 
that, had any translation of it existed in the days of Descartes, 
every one would have cried out against the plagiarism. 

Like Descartes, he begins with describing how he had in vain 
interrogated every sect for an answer to the mysterious problems 
which “ disturbed him with a sense of things unknownand 
how he finally resolved to discard all authority, and detach him¬ 
self from the opinions which had been instilled into him during 
the unsuspecting years of childhood. “I said to myself,” he 
proceeds, “ My aim is simply to know the truth of things; con¬ 
sequently it is indispensable for me to ascertain what is knowl¬ 
edge. Now, it was evident to me that certain knowledge must be 
that which explains the object to be known, in such a manner 
that no doubt can remain, so that in future all error and conjec¬ 
ture respecting it must be impossible. Not only would the 
understanding then need no efforts to be convinced of certitude, 
but security against error is in such close connection with knowl¬ 
edge, that even were an apparent proof of its falsehood to be 


364 


FROM PROCLUS TO BACON. 


brought forward, it would cause no doubt, because no suspicion 
of error would be possible. Thus, when I have acknowledged 
ten to be more than three, if any one were to say, ‘ On the con¬ 
trary, three is more than ten; and. to prove the truth of my 
assertion, I will change this rod into a serpentand if he were 
to change it, my conviction of his error w T ould remain unshaken. 
Ilis manoeuvre would only produce in me admiration for his 
ability. I should not doubt my own knowledge. 

“ Then w r as I convinced that knowledge which I did not pos¬ 
sess in this manner, aud respecting which I had not this cer¬ 
tainty, could inspire me with neither confidence nor assurance; 
and no knowledge without assurance deserves the name oi 
knowledge. 

“ Having examined the state of my own knowledge, I found it 
divested of all that could be said to have these qualities, unless 
perceptions of the senses and irrefragable principles were to be 
considered such. I then said to myself, Now having fallen into 
this despair, the only hope remaining of acquiring incontestable 
convictions is by the perception of the senses, and by necessary 
truths. Their evidence seemed to me indubitable. I began, 
however, to examine the objects of sensation and speculation, to 
see if they could possibly admit of doubt. Then doubts crowded 
upon me in such numbers that my incertitude became complete. 
Whence results the confidence I have in sensible things ? The 
strongest of all our senses is sight; and yet, looking at a shadow 
and perceiving it to be fixed and immovable, we judge it to be 
deprived of movement; nevertheless, experience teaches us that, 
when we return to the same place an hour after, the shadow is 
displaced; for it does not vanish suddenly, but gradually, little 
by little, so as never to be at rest. If we look at the stars, they 
seem as small as money-pieces; but mathematical proofs convince 
us they are larger than the earth. These and other things are 
judged by the senses, but rejected by reason as false. I aban¬ 
doned the senses, therefore, having seen all my confidence in 
their truth shaken. 


ALGAZZALI. 


365 


“Perhaps,” said I, “there is no assurance but in the notions of 
Reason: that is to say, first principles, e. g. ten is more than 
three: the same thing cannot have been created and yet have 
existed from all eternitv; to exist and not to exist at the same 
time is impossible. 

“Upon this the senses replied : What assurance have you that 
your confidence in Reason is not of the same nature as your 
confidence in us ? When you relied on us, Reason stepped in 
and gave us the lie; had not Reason been there, you would have 
continued to rely on us. Well, may there not exist some other 
judge superior to Reason, who, if he appeared, would refute the 
judgments of Reason in the same way that Reason refuted us? 
The non-appearance of such a judge is no proof of his non-ex¬ 
istence.” 

These skeptical arguments Algazzali borrowed from the Gre¬ 
cian skeptics, and having borrowed them, he likewise borrowed 
from Grecian mystics, of the Alexandrian school, the means of 
escape from skepticism. lie looked upon life as a dream. 

“ I strove in vain to answer the objections. And my difficul¬ 
ties increased when I came to reflect upon sleep. I said to my¬ 
self, During sleep you give to visions a reality and consistence, 
and you have no suspicion of their untruth. On awakening, 
you are made aware that they were nothing but visions. What 
assurance have you, that all you feel and know when awake, does 
actually exist? It is all true as respects your condition at that 
moment; but it is, nevertheless, possible that another condition 
should present itself, which should be to your awakened state 
that which your awakened state now is to your sleep; so that, 
in respect to this higher condition, your waking is but sleep.” 

If such a superior condition be granted, Algazzali asks whether 
we can ever attain to participation in it. He suspects that the 
Ecstasy described by the Soufis must be the very condition. But 
he finds himself philosophically unable to escape the conse¬ 
quences of skepticism: the skeptical arguments could only be 
v efuted by demonstrations; but demonstrations themselves must 


366 


FROM PKOCLUS TO BACON. 


be founded on first principles; if they are uncertain, no demon¬ 
stration can be certain. 

“ I was thus forced to return to the admission of intellectual 
notions as the basis of all certitude. This, however, was not by 
systematic reasoning and accumulation of proofs , but by a fash 
of light which God sent into my soul. For whoever imagines that 
truth can only be rendered evident by proofs, places narrow limits 
to the wide compassion of the Creator/’ 

Thus we see Algazzali eluding skepticism ^ust as the Alexan¬ 
drians eluded it, taking refuge in faith. He then cast his eyes on 
the various sects of the faithful, whom he ranged under four 
classes: 

I. The Dogmatists: those who ground their doctrine wholly 
upon reason. 

II. The Basttnis , or Allegorists: those who receive their doc¬ 
trine from an Imam, and believe themselves sole possessors of truth. 

III. The Philosophers: those who call themselves masters of 
Logic and Demonstration. 

IV. The Soufis: those who claim an immediate intuition , by 
which they perceive the real manifestations of truth as ordinary 
men perceive material phenomena. 

These schools he resolved thoroughly to question. In the 
writings of the Dogmatists he acknowledged that their aim was 
realized; but their aim was not his aim: “Their aim,” he says, 
“ is the preservation of the Faith from the alterations introduced 
by heretics.” But his object was philosophical, not theological; 
so he turned from the Dogmatists to the Philosophers, studying 
cheir works with intense ardor, convinced that he could not refute 
them until he had thoroughly understood them. He did refute 
them, entirely to his satisfaction ;* and having done so, turned 
to the Soufis, in whose writings he found a doctrine which re¬ 
quired the union of action with speculation, in which virtue was 


* In the ninth volume of the works of Averroes there is a treatise by Al¬ 
gazzali, Destructio Philosojihorum, which contains his refutation of the phil 
osophical schooiS. 



algazzAli. 


367 


u guide to knowledge. The aim of the Soufis was to free the 
mind from earthly considerations, to purify it from all passions, 
to leave it only God as an object of meditation. The highest 
truths were not to be reached by study, but by transport —by a 
transformation of the soul during ecstasy. There is the same 
difference between this higher order of truth and ordinary sci¬ 
ence, as between being healthy and knowing the definition of 
health. To reach this state, it was necessary first to purify the 
soul from all earthly desires,'*to extirpate from it all attachment 
to the world, and humbly direct the thoughts to our eternal 
home. 

“Reflecting on my situation, I found myself bound to this 
world by a thousand ties, temptations assailing me on all sides. 
I then examined my actions. The best were those relating to 
instruction and education; and even there I saw myself given 
up to unimportant sciences, all useless in another world. Reflect¬ 
ing on the aim of my teaching, I found it was not pure in the 
sight of the Lord. I saw that all my efforts were directed to¬ 
wards the acquisition of glory to myself.” 

Thus did Philosophy lead him to a speculative Asceticism, 
which calamity was shortly afterwards to transform into practical 
Asceticism. One day, as he was about to lecture to a throng of 
admiring auditors, his tongue refused utterance: he was dumb. 
This seemed to him a visitation of God, a rebuke to his vanity, 
which deeply afflicted him. He lost his appetite; he was fast sink¬ 
ing; physicians declared his recovery hopeless, unless he could 
shake off the sadness which depressed him. He sought refuge in 
contemplation of the Deity. 

“ Having distributed my w r ealth, I left Bagdad and retired into 
Syria, where I remained two years in solitary struggle with my 
soul, combating my passions and exercising myself in the purifica¬ 
tion of my heart, and in preparation for the other world.” 

He visited Jerusalem, and made a pilgrimage to Mecca, but at 
length returned to Bagdad, urged thereto by “private affairs” and 
the requests of his children, as he says, but more probably urged 


368 


FROM PROCLUS TO BACON. 


thereto by his sense of failure, for he confesses not to have reached 
the ecstatic stage. Occasional glimpses were all he could attain, 
isolated moments of exaltation passing quickly away. 

“Nevertheless, I did not despair of finally attaining this state. 
Every time that any accident turned me from it, I endeavored 
quickly to re-enter it. In this condition I remained ten years. In 
my solitude there were revelations made to me which it is impos¬ 
sible for me to describe, or even indicate. Enough if, for the 
reader’s profit, I declare that the conviction was forced upon me 
that the Soufis indubitably walked in the true paths of salvation. 
Their way of life is the most beautiful, and their morals the 
purest that can be conceived.” 

The first condition of Soufi purification is, that the novice 
purge his heart of all that is not God. Prayers are the means. 
The object is absorption in the Deity. 

“From the very first, Soufis have such astonishing revelations 
that they are enabled, while waking, to see visions of angels and 
the souls of the prophets; they hear their voices, and receive their 
favors. Afterwards a transport exalts them beyond the mere per¬ 
ception of forms, to a degree which exceeds all expression, and con¬ 
cerning which we cannot speak without employing language that 
would sound blasphemous. In fact, some have gone so far as to 
imagine themselves to be amalgamated with God, others identified 
with him , and others to be associated with him.* All these are 
sinful.” 

Algazzali refuses to enter more minutely into this subject; he 
contents himself with the assertion that whoso knows not Ecstasy 
knows prophetism only by name. And what is Prophetism? 
The fourth stage in intellectual development. The first, or infant¬ 
ile stage, is that of pure Sensation; the second, which begius at 
the age of seven, is that of Understanding; the third is Reason, 
by means of which the intellect perceives the necessary, the pos¬ 
sible, the absolute, and all those higher objects which transcend 


* IJow characteristic this is of mysticism in all ages may be seen in the 
delightful Hours ivith the Mystics, by Mr. R. A. Vaughan. 



ALGAZZALI. 


369 


the Understanding.* After this comes the fourth stage, when 
another eye is opened, by which man perceives things hidden from 
others—perceives all that will be—perceives things that escape 
the perceptions of Reason, as the objects of Reason escape the 
Understanding, and as the objects of Understanding escape the 
sensitive faculty. This is Prophetism. Algazzali undertakes to 
prove the existence of this faculty : 

“Doubts respecting Prophetism must refer either to its possibility 
or its reality. To prove its possibility it is only necessary to prove 
that it belongs to the category of objects which cannot be regarded 
as the products of intelligence : such, for example, as Astronomy or 
Medicine. For whoso studies these sciences is aware that they 
cannot be comprehended except by Divine inspiration, with the 
assistance of God, and not by experience. Since there are astro¬ 
nomical indications which only appear once in a thousand years, 
how could they be known by experience ? From this argument it 
is evident that it is very possible to perceive things which the 
intelligence cannot conceive. And this is precisely one of the 
properties of Prophetism, which has a myriad other properties; 
but these others are only perceptible during ecstasy by those who 
lead the life of the Soufis.” 

We are now in a position to judge of Soufism, which was not, 
strictly speaking, a Philosophy, nor was it a Religion. No Mus¬ 
sulman, according to M. Schmolders, ever regarded it as either. 
It was simply a rule of life, carried into practice by a body of 
men, similar to what in Europe would have been a monastic order. 
The aim of Algazzali’s treatise was something more than the 
mere inculcation of Soufism, it was the endeavor to supply a 
'philosophical basis for the rule of life; in other words, an attempt 
to reconcile Religion with Philosophy, or Philosophy with Re¬ 
ligion ; precisely analogous to that attempt which constitutes the 
whole philosophic activity of Scholasticism. There were two 
great epochs in the intellectual development of the Arabians: the 

* Kant’s three psychological elements, Sinnlichkeit , Verstand , Vernunft t 
are here anticipated. 




370 


FROM PROCLUS TO BACON. 


preaching of Mahomet, and the conquest of Alexandria : the one 
gave them a Religion, the other gave them a Philosophy. The 
doctrines of the Koran were blended with those of the Neo-Pla- 
tonists, and the result was that system of speculation known as 
Arabian Philosophy; a system different in its details, but similar 
in spirit and purpose to that known as Scholasticism, which 
blended the doctrines of Christianity with those of Grecian spec¬ 
ulators. 

§ IV. Revival of Learning. 

However similar in spirit, Scholasticism could of course only 
accept, from the Arabian Philosophy, that portion which was de¬ 
rived from Greece, since Christianity necessarily replaced the Ma¬ 
hometan element. Europe was indebted to the Arabs for most ot 
the principal works of Aristotle; and although it has long been 
the cue of historians and critics to speak contemptuously of the 
Arabian translations—a contempt perfectly impartial, seeing that 
the critics could read no Arabic—we are assured by M. Schmolders 
that these translations were very careful, and critical. Through 
the schools of Cordoba, Seville, Toledo, Valencia, Murcia, and 
Almeria, the Greek writers penetrated everywhere. 

With the revival of learning, after the fall of Constantinople 
came fresh streams of Grecian influence. The works of Plato be¬ 
came generally known; under Marsilio Ficino—to whom we owe 
the Latin translation of Plato*—a school of Platonists was formed, 
which continued to divide, with the school of Aristotle, the su¬ 
premacy of Europe, under new forms, as before it had divided it 
under the form of Realism. The effect of this influx of Grecian 
influence, at a period when Philosophy was just emancipating 
itself from the absolute authority of the Church, and proclaiming 
the divine right of Reason to be heard on all rational topics, was to 
transfer the allegiance from the Church to Antiquity. To have 
suddenly cast off all authority would have been too violent a 


* In many respects our best guide to Plato’s meaning where he is most 
Vbscure. It is printed in Bekker’s edition. 



REVIVAL OF LEARNING. 


371 


change; and it may on the whole be regarded as fortunate for 
human development that Philosophy did so blindly accept the 
new authority—one altogether human , yet without deep roots in 
the life of the nation, without any external constituted power, 
consequently very liable to disunion and disruption, and certain 
to give way before the necessary insurgence of Reason insisting . 
on freedom. 

There is something profoundly significant in the principle ot 
Authority, when not exercised despotically, and something essen¬ 
tially anarchical in the principle of Liberty of Thought, when not 
restrained within due limits. Both Authority and Liberty are 
necessary principles, which only in misuse become paralyzing or 
destructive. It may be made perfectly clear to the rational mind 
that there can be no such thing as “ liberty of private judgment” 
in Mathematics, Astronomy, Physics, Chemistry, or any other 
science the truths of which have been established; the person 
ignorant of these sciences does, and must, take upon trust the 
statements made by those who are authorities; he cannot indulge 
his “private judgment” on the matter, without forfeiting the re¬ 
spect of those who hear him. Does this mean that all men are 
bound blindly to accept what astronomers and chemists assert ? 
No; to require such submission of the judgment, is to pass beyond 
the principle of Authority, and assume that of Despotism. The 
principle of Liberty assures entire freedom to intellectual activity, 
warrants the control of Authority, incites men to control it by 
submitting its positions to those elementary tests by which it was 
itself originally constituted. If I have made a series of experiments 
which have led to the disclosure of an important truth, your 
liberty of private judgment is mere anarchy if it assert itself in 
denying the truth simply out of your own preconceptions; but it 
is healthy freedom if it assert itself in denying the truth after 
having submitted my authority to its original tests (those experi¬ 
ments, namely, which gave it authority), and after detecting some 
error in my experimentation, or some inaccuracy in my induction. 
The authoritative statement of Sir Charles Bell, repeated by everv 
27 


372 


FROM PROCLUS TO BACON. 


other anatomist, respecting the separate functions of the anterioi 
and posterior columns of the spinal chord, was one which permitted 
no liberty of private judgment, but did permit liberty of private 
verification; and when M. Brown-Sequard repeated the original 
experiments and proved the former conclusions to be erroneous,* 
his authoritative statement replaced that of previous anatomists, 
and will continue to replace it, until it has undergone a similar 
defeat through the process of verification. 

If this is a correct view, it will enable us to understand the 
long continuance of Aristotle’s authority, which coerced the 
minds of men as the authority of one confessedly a master in his 
art, and one whose positions would not easily be brought to the 
test of verification. Hence, as Bayle says, the method employed 
was first to prove every thesis by authority, and next by argu¬ 
ments ; the proofs by authority were passages of Aristotle : the 
arguments went to show that these passages, rightly interpreted, 
meant what the thesis meant. 

Other causes contributed to foster this reverence for Authority; 
only one cause could effectually destroy it, and that was the rise 
of positive Science, which by forcing men to verify every step 
they took, led them into direct antagonism with the ancients, 
and made them choose between the new truth and the old dogmia. 
As Campanella—one of the reforming thinkers—acutely saw, 
“ the reforms already made in philosophy must make us expect 
its complete change; and whoever denies that the Christian 
mind will surpass the Pagan mind, must also deny the existence 
of the New World, the planets and the stars, the seas, the ani¬ 
mals, the colonies, and the modern sects of the new cosmog¬ 
raphy.”! It does not come within our purpose here to trace 
the rise and development of Science; we must therefore pass at 
once to Giordano Bruno, whom we have selected as the type ot 
the philosophical insurgents against the authority of Aristotle 
and the Church. 


* See Memoires de la Societe de Biologie. 1855. 
t Quoted by M. Rcnouvier, Manuel de Philos. Moderne , p. 7. 



GIORDANO BRUNO. 


373 


§ V. Giordano Bruno.* 

On the 17th of February, 1600, a vast concourse of people was 
assembled in the largest open space in Rome, gathered together 
by the irresistible sympathy which men always feel with what¬ 
ever is terrible and tragic in human existence. In the centre 
stood a huge pile of fagots; from out its logs and branches rose 
a stake. Crowding round the pile were eager and expectant 
faces, men of various ages and of various characters, but all for 
one moment united in a common feeling of malignant triumph. 
Religion was about to be avenged: a heretic was coming to ex¬ 
piate on that spot the crime of open defiance to the dogmas pro¬ 
claimed by the Church—the crime of teaching that, the earth 
moved, and that there was an infinity of worlds : the scoundrel! 
the villain! the blasphemer! Among the crowd might be seen 
monks of every description, especially Dominicans, who were 
anxious to witness the punishment of an apostate from their 
order; wealthy citizens were jostling ragged, beggars,—young 
and beauteous women, some of them with infants at their breasts, 
were talking with their husbands and fathers,—and playing 
about amidst the crowd, in all the heedlessness of childhood, 
were a number of boys, squeezing their way, and running up 
against scholars pale with study, and bearded soldiers glittering 
with steel. 

Whom does the crowd await ? Giordano Bruno—the poet, 
philosopher, and heretic—the teacher of Galileo’s heresy—the 
friend of Sir Philip Sidney, and open antagonist of Aristotle. 
Questions pass rapidly to and fro among the crowd; exultation 
is on every face, mingled with intense curiosity. Grave men 
moralize on the power of Satan to pervert learning and talent to 
evil: Oh, my friends, let us beware!—let us beware of learning! 
let us beware of every thing! Bystanders shake significant 
heads. A hush comes over the crowd. The procession solemn- 

* In tliis Section I have altered and abridged an essay of my own in the 
British ifuai'terly Revieic. 



374 


FROM PKOCLUS TO BACON. 


ly advances, the soldiers peremptorily clearing the way for it 
“ Look, there he is—there, in the centre! How calm—how 
haughty and stubborn!” (women whisper, “How handsome!”) 
His large eyes are turned towards us, serene, untroubled. His 
face is placid, though so pale. They offer him the crucifix; he 
turns aside his head—he refuses to Iciss it! “ The heretic!” 

They show him the image of Him who died upon the cross for 
the sake of the living truth—he refuses the symbol! A yell 
bursts from the multitude. 

They chain him to the stake. He remains silent. Will he 
not pray for mercy ? Will he not recant? Now the last hour 
is arrived—will he die in his obstinacy, wdien a little hypocrisy 
would save him from so much agony ? It is even so : he is stub¬ 
born, unalterable. They light the fagots; the branches crackle; 
the flame ascends; the victim writhes—and now we see no more. 
The smoke envelops him; but not a prayer, not a plaint, not a 
single cry escapes him. In a little while the wind has scattered 
the ashes of Giordano Bruno. 

The martyrdom of Bruno has preserved his name from falling 
into the same neglect as his writings. Most well-read men re¬ 
member his name as that of one who, whatever his errors might 
have been, perished a victim of intolerance. But the extreme 
rarity of his works, aided by some other causes into which it is 
needless here to enter, has, until lately, kept even the most curi¬ 
ous from forming any acquaintance with them. The rarity of 
the writings made them objects of bibliopolic luxury: they were 
the black swans of literature. Three hundred florins were paid 
for the Spaccio, in Holland, and thirty pounds in England. 
Jacobi’s mystical friend, Iiamann, searched Italy and Germany 
in vain for the dialogues De la Causa and De Vlnfinito. But 
in 1830, Herr Wagner, after immense toil, brought out his valu¬ 
able edition of the Italian works, and since then students have 
been able to form some idea of the Neapolitan thinker.* 

* Opere di Giordano Bruno , Nolano , ora per la prima volta raccolte e pub 
tticate da Adolfo Wagner. 2 vols., Leipzig, 1850 



GIORDANO BRUNO. 


375 


Giordano Bruno was born at Nola, in La Terra di Lavoro, a 
few miles from Naples, and midway between Vesuvius and the 
Mediterranean.* The date of his birth is fixed as 1550—that is 
to say, ten years after the death of Copernicus,—whose system 
he was to espouse with such ardor,—and ten years before the 
birth of our own illustrious Bacon. Tasso well says: 

“ La terra 

Siraili a s& gli abitator’ produce 

and Bruno was a true Neapolitan child—as ardent as its volcanic 
soil, burning atmosphere, and dark thick wine (mangia guerra ) 
—as capricious as its varied climate. There was a restless en¬ 
ergy which fitted him to become the preacher of a new crusade 
—urging him to throw a haughty defiance in the face of every 
authority in every country,—an energy which closed his wild 
adventurous career at the stake lighted by the Inquisition. He 
was also distinguished by a rich fancy, a varied humor, and a 
chivalrous gallantry, which constantly remind us that the athlete 
is an Italian, and an Italian of the sixteenth century. Stern as 
was the struggle, he never allowed the grace of his nature to be 
vanquished by its vehemence. He went forth as a preacher; 
but it was a preacher young, handsome, gay, and worldly—as a 
poet, not as a fanatic. 

The first thing we hear of him is the adoption of the Domini¬ 
can’s frock. In spite of his ardent temperament, so full of vigor¬ 
ous life, he shuts himself up in a cloister,—allured, probably, by 
the very contrast which such a life offered to his own energetic 
character. Bruno in a cloister has but two courses open to him: 
either all that affluent energy will rush into some stern fanati¬ 
cism, and, as in Loyola, find aliment in perpetual self-combat, and 
in bending the wills of others to his purposes; or else his restless 
spirit of inquiry, stimulated by avidity for glory, will startle and 
irritate his superiors. It was not long ere the course was decided. 


* For the biographic details I am mainly indebted to the valuable work ot 
M. Christian Bartholmess, entitled Jordano Bruno , 2 vols., Paris, 1848. 



376 


FROM PROCLUS TO BACON. 


He began to doubt tbe mystery of transubstantiation. ISa^ 
more : he not only threw doubt upon the dogmas of the Church, 
he had also the audacity to attack the pillar of all faith, the great 
authority of the age—Aristotle himself. The natural conse 
quences ensued—he was feared and persecuted. Unable to with¬ 
stand his opponents, he fled. Casting aside the monkish robe, 
which clothed him in what he thought a falsehood, he fled from 
Italy at the very moment when Montaigne, having finished the 
first part of his immortal Essays, entered it, to pay a visit to the 
unhappy Tasso, then raving in an hospital. 

Bruno was now an exile, but he was free; aud the delight he 
felt at his release maybe read in several passages of his writings, 
especially in the sonnet prefixed to L'lnfinito: 

“Uscito di prigione angusta e nera, 

Ove tanti anni error stretto m’ avvinse: 

Qua lascio la catena, che mi cinse, 

La man di mia nemica invida e fera,” etc. 

He was thirty years of age when he began his adventurous course 
through Europe—to wage single-handed war against much of 
the falsehood, folly, and corruption of his epoch. Like his great 
prototype, Xenophanes, who wandered over Greece, a rhapsodist 
of philosophy, striving to awaken mankind to a recognition of 
the Deity whom they degraded by their dogmas, and like his 
own unhappy rivals, Campanella and Vanini, Bruno became the 
knight-errant of truth, ready to combat all comers in its cause. 
His life was a battle without a victory. Persecuted in one coun¬ 
try, he fled to another—everywhere sowing the seeds of revolt, 
everywhere shaking the dynasty of received opinion. It was a 
strange time,—to every earnest man, a sad and almost hopeless 
time. The Church was in a pitiable condition—decaying from 
within, and attacked from without. The lower clergy were de¬ 
graded by ignorance, indolence, and sensuality; the prelates, if 
more enlightened, were enlightened only as epicures and pedants, 
swearing by the Gods of Greece and Borne, and laboriously imi¬ 
tating the sonorous roll of Ciceronian periods. The Reformation 


GIORDANO BRUNO. 


07 >7 
o ^ ( 

liad startled the world, especially the ecclesiastical world. The 
Inquisition was vigilant and cruel; hut among its very members 
were skeptics. Skepticism, with a polish of hypocrisy, was the 
general disease. It penetrated almost everywhere—from the 
cloister to the cardinal’s palace. Skepticism, however, is only a 
transitory disease. Men must have convictions. Accordingly, 
in all ages, we see skepticism stimulating new reforms; and re¬ 
formers were not wanting in the sixteenth century. Of the 
Lutheran movement it is needless here to speak. The sixteenth 
century marks its place in history as the century of revolutions : 
it not only broke the chain which bound Europe to Rome, it 
also broke the chain which bound philosophy to Scholasticism 
and Aristotle. It set human reason free ; it proclaimed the lib¬ 
erty of though 1- and action. In the vanguard of its army, we 
see Telesio, Campanella, and Bruno, men who must always excite 
our admiration and our gratitude for their cause and for their 
courage. They fell fighting for freedom of thought and utter¬ 
ance—the victims of a fanaticism the more odious because it was 
not the rigor of belief, but of ‘pretended belief. They fought in 
those early days of the great struggle between science and pre¬ 
judice, when Galileo was a heretic, and when the implacable 
severity of dogmatism baptized in blood every new thought borui 
into the world. 

One spirit is common to all these reformers, however various- 
their doctrines: that spirit is one of unhesitating opposition to* 
the dominant authority. It is the crisis of the Middle Ages— 
the modern era dawns there. In the fifteenth century men were- 
occupied with the newly awakened treasures of ancient learning:: 
it was a century of erudition; the past was worshipped at the ex¬ 
pense of the present. In art, in philosophy, and in religion, men 
sought to restore the splendors of an earlier time. Brunelleschi, 
Michael Angelo, Raphael, disdaining the types of Gothic art, 
strove to recall once more the classic type. Marsilio Ficino, 
Mirandola, Telesio, and Bruno, discarding the subtleties and dis¬ 
putes of Scholasticism, endeavored to reproduce Pythagoras, 


378 


FROM PROCLUS TO BACON. 


Plato, and Plotinus. In religion, Luther and Calvin, avowedly 
rising against Papal corruptions, labored to restore the Church 
to its primitive simplicity. Thus the new era seemed retrograde. 
It is often so. The recurrence to an earlier time is the prepara¬ 
tion for a future. We cannot leap far, leaping from the spot 
where we stand; we must step backwards a few paces to acquire 
momentum. 

Giordano Bruno ceaselessly attacked Aristotle. In so doing 
he knew that he grappled with the Goliath of the Church. Aris¬ 
totle was a synonym for reason. An anagram was made of his 
name, “ Aristoteles: iste sol erat .” His logic and physics, to¬ 
gether with the Ptolemaic system of astronomy, were then con¬ 
sidered as inseparable portions of the Christian creed. In 1624 
—a quarter of a century after Bruno’s martyrdom—the Parlia¬ 
ment of Paris issued a decree banishing all w r ho publicly main¬ 
tained theses against Aristotle; and in 1629, at the urgent 
remonstrance of the Sorbonne, decreed that to contradict the 
principles of Aristotle was to contradict the Church ! There is 
an anecdote recorded somewhere of a student, who, having de¬ 
tected spots in the sun, communicated his discovery to a worthy 
priest: “ My son,” replied the priest, “ I have read Aristotle 
many times, and I assure you there is nothing of the kind men¬ 
tioned by him. Go rest in peace ; and be certain that the spots 
which you have seen are in your eyes, and not in the sun.” 
When Bamus solicited the permission of Beza to teach in Ge¬ 
neva, he w r as told, “the Genovese have decreed once for all, that 
neither in logic, nor in any other branch of knowledge, will they 
depart from the opinions of Aristotle —ne tantillum quidem ab 
Aristotelis sentintia dejlectere It is well known that the Stagi- 
rite narrowly escaped being canonized as a Saint. Are you for 
or against Aristotle ? was the question of philosophy ; and the 
piquant aspect of this dpKfrorsXso^a^la is the fact that both par¬ 
ties were often ignorant of the real opinions of the Stagirite; at¬ 
tributing to him indeed doctrines the very reverse of what a more 
ample knowledge of his writings has shown to have been his. 


GIORDANO BRUNO. 


379 


Bruno, as we said, took his stand opposite to the Aristotelians. 
Pythagoras, Plato, and Plotinus were his teachers. Something 
of temperament may have originated this; for Bruno undoubt¬ 
edly belongs to that class of thinkers in whom logic is but the 
handmaid of Imagination and Fancy. To him the Aristotle of 
that age was antipathetic. The Aristotelians taught that the 
world was finite, and the heavens incorruptible. Bruno declared 
the world to be infinite, and subject to an eternal and universal 
revolution. The Aristotelians proclaimed the immobility of the 
earth : Bruno proclaimed its rotation. Such open dissidence 
could of course only enrage the party in power. It would have 
been sufficiently audacious to promulgate such absurdities— hor- 
renda prorsus absurdissima —as the rotation of the earth ; but to 
defy Aristotle and ridicule his logic, could only proceed from in¬ 
sanity, or impiety. So Bruno had to fly. 

To Geneva he first directed his steps. But there the power 
which had proved stronger than the partisans of Servetus, was 
still dominant. He made his escape to Toulouse; there he 
raised a storm among the Aristotelians, such as compelled him 
to fly to Paris. Behold him then in Paris, the streets of which 
were still slippery with the blood of the Eve of St. Bartholomew. 
One expects to see him butchered without mercy; but, by some 
good fortune, he obtains the favor of Henry III., who not only 
permits him to lecture at the Sorbonne, but offers to admit him 
as a salaried professor, if Bruno will but attend Mass. Is it not 
strange that at a time when attendance at Mass was so serious a 
matter,—when the echoes of that lugubrious cry, la Messe ou la 
inort! which had resounded through those narrow murky streets, 
must have been still ringing in men’s ears,—Bruno, in spite of 
his refusal, not only continued to lecture, but became exceeding¬ 
ly popular ? Since Abelard had captivated the students of Paris 
with his facile eloquence and startling novelties, no teacher had 
been so enthusiastically received as Bruno. Young, handsome, 
eloquent, and facetious, he charmed by his manner no less than 
by his matter. Adopting by turns every form of address—rising 


3S0 


FPwOM PKOCLUS TO BACON. 


into the aerial altitudes of imagination, or descending into the 
kennel of obscenity and buffoonery—now grave, prophet-like, and 
impassioned—now fierce and controversial—now fanciful and 
humorous—he threw aside all the monotony of professional 
gravity, to speak to them as a man. He did not on this 
occasion venture openly to combat the prejudices and doc¬ 
trines of the age; that was reserved for his second visit, after 
he had learned in England to speak as became a free and earn¬ 
est man. 

To England let us follow him. On the misty banks of our 
noble Thames, he was rudely initiated into the brutality of the 
English character; but he was amply compensated by his recep¬ 
tion at the Court of Elizabeth, where a friendly welcome awaited 
all foreigners—especially Italians. Nor was his southern heart 
cold to the exquisite beauty and incomparable grace of our wo¬ 
men. England was worth visiting; and he had reason to refer 
with pride to “ questo paese Brittannico a cui doviamola fedelta 
ed amore ospitale.” It was in England he published the greater 
part of his Italian works. It was here perhaps that the serenest 
part of his life was spent. Patronized by the Queen (“Tunica 
Diana qual e tra voi, qual che tra gli astri il sole,” as he calls 
her), he had the glory and the happiness to call Sir Philip Sid¬ 
ney friend. 

In the high communion of noble minds, in the interchange ot 
great thoughts and glorious aspirations, another than Bruno 
might have been content to leave the w r orld and all its errors in 
peace; but he had that within him w 7 hich would not suffer him 
to be at rest. He could not let the w T orld wag on its w T ay, con¬ 
tent to smile on its errors. He had a mission—without the cant 
of a mission. He w T as a soldier, and had his battles to fi^ht. In 
the society of Sir Philip Sidney, Sir Fulke Greville, Dyer, Harvey, 
and most probably of Antonio Perez and Shakspeare’s Florio, 
Bruno might have discussed with calmness every question of phi¬ 
losophy,—that is, had he been of an epicurean turn—had he not 
been Bruno. As it w T as, lured by his passion for publicity—by 


GIORDANO BRUNO. 


3S1 


his vanity, no less than by his love of truth—he rushed into the 
arena, 

“ Confident as is the falcon’s flight.” 

If we attribute to him motives not altogether pure—if we see as 
much ostentation as devotion in this conduct, let it be remem¬ 
bered, that in this life the great aims of humanity are worked 
out by human means, wherein the impure and selfish are as much 
vital elements as the noble. In the great mechanism there are 
numberless trivial wheels, and littleness is often the accessory 
spring of some heroic act. This is no concession to the school 
of Rochefoucauld. That school makes the great mistake of at¬ 
tributing the splendor of the sun to its spots,—of deriving the 
greatness of human nature from its littleness. A selfish impulse 
will often mingle with the unselfish impulses which prompt an 
heroic act. We have only to reflect on the numerous instances 
of selfish impulse unaccompanied by any heroism, to be assured 
that if selfishness and disinterestedness may be found conjoined 
in the mingled woof of human nature, it in nowise alters the 
fact of disinterestedness, it in nowise lessens the worthiness of 
heroism. What philosophy is that which sees only vanity in 
martyrdom, only love of applause in the daring proclamation of 
truth ? Gold without dross is not to be found in the earth ; but 
is it therefore copper ? 

Let us follow Bruno’s course with other feelings than those of 
a short-sighted philosophy. It was not very long after his arrival 
in England (1583), that Leicester, then Chancellor of Oxford, 
gave that splendid fete in honor of the County Palatine Albert 
de Lasco, of which the annals of Oxford and the works of Bruno 
have preserved some details. In those days a foreigner was 
“ lionized” in a more grandiose style than modern Amphitryons 
attempt. It was not deemed sufficient to ask the illustrious stran¬ 
ger to “ breakfast;” there were no “ dinners” given in public, or at 
the club. The age of tournaments had passed away; but there 
were still the public discussions, which were a sort of passage-of- 
arms between the knights of intellect. And such a tourney had 


3S2 


FROM PROCLUS TO BACON. 


Leicester prepared in honor of the Pole. Oxford called upon 
her doughty men to brighten lip their arms,—that is to say, to 
shake the dust from their volumes of Aristotle,—and all comers 
were challenged. Bruno stepped into the arena. Oxford chose 
her best men to combat for Aristotle and Ptolemy. On that 
cause her existence seemed to depend. Her statutes declared 
that the Bachelors and Masters of Arts who did not faithfully 
follow Aristotle, were liable to a fine of five shillings for every 
point of divergence, or for every fault committed against the 
Organon. Bruno wittily called Oxford the widow of sound 
learning—“ la vedova di buone lettere.” 

The details of this “ wit combat” are unknown to us. Bruno 
declares that fifteen times did he stop the mouth of his pitiable 
adversary, who could only reply by abuse.* But there is con¬ 
siderable forfanterie about the Neapolitan, and such statements 
must be received with caution. That he created a “ sensation,” 
we have no doubt; but his doctrines were sufficiently startling. 
We also find him, on the strength of that success, soliciting per¬ 
mission of the Oxford Senate to profess openly. With his usual 
arrogance, he styles himself, in this address, as a “ doctor of a 
more perfect theology, and professor of a purer wisdom,” than 
was there taught. Strange as it may appear, permission was 
granted; probably because he had the patronage of Elizabeth. 
He lectured on cosmology, and on the immortality of the soul: 
, a doctrine which he maintained, not upon the principles of Ar¬ 
istotle, but upon those of the Neo-Platonists, who regarded this 
life as a brief struggle, a sort of agony of death, through which 
the soul must pass ere it attains to the splendor of existence in 

* “ Andate in Oxonia e fatevi raccontar le cose intravenute al Nolano quan- 
do pubblicamente disputd con que 1 dottori in teologia in presenza del Prin¬ 
cipe Alasco Polacco, et altri de la nobilita inglese 1 Fatevi dire come si sapea 
rispondere a gli argomenti, come resto per quiudici sillogismi quindici volte 
qual pulcino entro la stoppa quel povero dottor, che come il confeo de 1’ ac- 
eademia ne puosero avanti in questa grave occasione 1 Fatevi dire con quanta 
Lncivilita e discortesia procedea quel porco, e con quanta pazienza et umanita 
quell’ altro, che in fatto mostrava essere Napoletano nato et allevato sotto piO 
benignc cielo !”—La Cena de le Ceneri: Opp. Ital. ii. 179. 



GIORDANO BRUNO. 


3S3 


the eternal and universal life. In the deep unquenchable desire 
which is within us to unite ourselves with God, and to quit this 
miserable sphere for the glorious regions of eternity, is the writ¬ 
ten conviction of our future existence. No doubt he preached 
this doctrine with stirring eloquence; but it must have sounded 
very heterodox in the ears of that wise conclave—styled by 
Bruno “ a constellation of pedants, whose ignorance, presump¬ 
tion, and rustic rudeness would have exhausted the patience of 
Job”—and they soon put an end to his lectures.* 

We have already intimated the protection which Elizabeth 
accorded him, and which he repaid by adulation, extravagant 
enough, but which was then the current style in speaking of 
royalty; and it should not be forgotten that this praise of a 
Protestant Queen was not among the least of his crimes in the 
eyes of his accusers. Still, even Elizabeth could not protect a 
heretic; and Bruno’s audacious eloquence roused such opposition, 
that he was forced to quit England. He returned to Paris, once 
more to court the favor of the Quartier Latin. He obtained 
permission to open a public disputation on the physics of Aris¬ 
totle. For three successive days did this dispute continue, in 
which the great questions of nature, the universe, and the rota¬ 
tion of the earth, were discussed. Bruno had thrown aside the 
veil, and presented his opinions naked to the gaze. His impet¬ 
uous onslaught upon established opinions, produced the natural 
result: he was forced again to fly. 

We next find him in Germany, carrying the spirit of innova¬ 
tion into its august universities. In July, 1586, he matriculated 
as theologice doctor Romanensis , in the university of Marburg, in 
Hesse; but permission to teach philosophy was refused him ob 
arduas causas. Whereupon he insulted the Hector in his own 
house, created a disturbance, and insisted that his name should 
be struck off from the list of members of the University. He 
set off for Wurtemberg. His reception in this centre of Luther- 


* Vide Cena dc le Ceneri. 



3S4: 


FROM PROCLUS TO BACON. 


anisrn was so gratifying, that he styled Wtirtemberg the Athens 
of Germany. “ Your justice,” he writes to the Senate, “has re¬ 
fused to listen to the insinuations circulated against my character 
and my opinions. You have, with admirable impartiality, per¬ 
mitted me to attack with vehemence that philosophy of Aristotle 
which you prize so highly.” For two years did he teach there 
with noisy popularity, yet on the whole with tolerable prudence, 
in not speaking against the peculiar views of Lutheranism. He 
even undertook a defence of Satan; but whether in that spirit 
of pity which moved Burns, or whether in the spirit of buffoon¬ 
ery which delights to play with awful subjects, we have no means 
of ascertaining. lie did not offend his audience, in whatever 
spirit he treated the subject. 

Here, then, in Wtirtemberg, with admiring audiences and free 
scope for discussion, one might fancy he would be at rest. Why 
should he leave so enviable a position ? Simply because he was 
not a man to rest in ease and quiet. He was possessed with the 
spirit of a reformer, and this urged him to carry his doctrines 
into other cities. Characteristic of his audacity is the next step 
he took. From Wtirtemberg he went to Prague; from the cen¬ 
tre of Lutheranism to the centre of Catholicism ! In this he had 
reckoned too much on his own powers. He met with neither 
sympathy nor support in Prague. He then passed on to Hehn- 
stadt, where his fame having preceded him, the Duke of Bruns¬ 
wick conferred upon him the honorable charge of educating the 
hereditary Duke. Here again, if he had consented to remain 
quiet, he might have been what the world calls “successful;” 
but he was troubled with convictions—things so impedimental to 
success!—and these drew down upon him a sentence of excom¬ 
munication. He justified himself, indeed, and the sentence was 
removed; but he was not suffered to remain in Ilehnstadt; so 
he passed to Frankfort, and there in quiet, brief retirement, pub¬ 
lished three of his Latin works. Here a blank occurs in his an¬ 
nals. When next we hear of him he is at Padua. 

After an absence of ten years, the wanderer returns to Italy. 


GIORDANO BRUNO. 


3S5 


In his restless course, lie has traversed Switzerland, France, Eng¬ 
land, and Germany; his hand against every man, and every 
maids hand against him. Heretic and innovator, he has irritated 
the clergy without securing the protection of philosophers. He 
has sought no protection but that of truth. That now he should 
choose Padua above all places, must ever excite our astonish¬ 
ment. Padua, where Aristotle reigns supreme! Padua, which 
is overshadowed by Venice and the Inquisition ! Was he weary 
of life, that he thus marched into the camp of his enemy ? or 
did he rely on the force of his convictions and the vigor of his 
eloquence to triumph even in Padua ? None can say. He came 
—he taught—he fled. Venice received him,—but it was in her 
terrible prison. Lovers of coincidences will find a piquant illus¬ 
tration in the fact, that at the very moment when Bruno was 
thrown into prison, Galileo opened his course of mathematics at 
Padua; and the six years in which Galileo occupied that mathe¬ 
matical chair, were the six years Bruno spent in miserable captivity. 

Bruno’s arrest was no sooner effected, than intimation of it 
was sent to the Grand Inquisitor San Severina, at Rome, who 
ordered that the prisoner should be sent to him, under escort, on 
the first opportunity. Thomas Morosini presented himself before 
the Savi of Venice, and demanded, in the name of his Emi¬ 
nence, that Bruno should be delivered up to him. “ That man,” 
said he, “ is not only a heretic, but an heresiarch. He has writ¬ 
ten w r orks in which he highly lauds the Queen of England and other 
heretical princes. He has written diverse things touching religion, 
which are contrary to the faith.” The Savi , for some reason or 
other, declined to give up their prisoner, saying the matter was 
too important for them to take a sudden resolution. Was this 
mercy? Was it cruelty? In effect, it was cruelty; for Bruno 
languished six years in the prisons of Venice, and only quitted 
them to perish at the stake. Six long years of captivity—worse 
than any death. To one so ardent, solitude itself was punishment. 
He wanted to be among men, to combat, to argue, to live; and 
he was condemned to the fearful solitudes of that prison, without 


38 G 


FROM PROCLUS TO BACON. 


books, without paper, without friends. Such was the repose which 
the weary wanderer found on his native soil. 

His prison doors were at length opened, and he was removed 
to Rome, there to undergo a tedious and fruitless examination. 
Of what use was it to call upon him to retract his opinions? 
The attempt to convince him was more rational; but it failed. 
The tiresome debate was needlessly prolonged. Finding him 
insensible to their threats and to their logic, they brought him, 
on the 9th of February, to the palace of San Severino; and 
there, in the presence of the cardinals and most illustrious theo¬ 
logians, he was forced to kneel and receive the sentence of ex- 
communication. That sentence passed, he was handed over to 
the secular authorities, with a recommendation of a “punish¬ 
ment as merciful as possible, and without effusion of blood”—the 
ut quani dementissimS et citra , sanguinis effusionem puniretur — 
the atrocious formula for burning alive. 

Calm and dignified was the bearing of the victim during the 
whole of this scene. It impressed even his persecutors. On 
hearing his sentence, one phrase alone disturbed the unalterable 
serenity of his demeanor. Raising his head with haughty supe¬ 
riority, he said, “I suspect you pronounce this sentence with 
more fear than I receive it.” A delay of one week was accorded 
to him, in the expectation that fear might force a retractation; 
but the week expired, and Bruno remained immovable. He per¬ 
ished at the stake; but he died in the martyr spirit, self-sus¬ 
tained and silent, welcoming death as the appointed passage to 
a higher life. 

“ Fendo i cieli e a P infinite* m’ ergo.” 

Bruno perished, the victim of intolerance. It is impossible to 
read of such a punishment without strong indignation and dis¬ 
gust. There is, indeed, no page in the annals of mankind which 
we would more willingly blot out, than those upon which fanat 
icism has written its bloody history. Frivolous as have often 
been the pretexts for shedding blood, none are more abhorrent 
to us than those founded upon religious differences. Surely the 


GIORDANO BRUNO. 


387 


question of religion is awful enough in itself! Men have the 
deepest possible interest in ascertaining the truth of it; and if 
they cannot read the problem aright by the light of their own 
convictions, will it be made more legible by the light of an auto- 
da-fe ? Tolerance is still far from being a general virtue; but 
what scenes of struggle, of violence, and of persecution, has the 
world passed through, before even the present modicum of tol¬ 
erance could be gained! In the sixteenth century, free thought 
was a crime. The wisest men were bitterly intolerant; the 
mildest, cruel. Campanella tells us that he was fifty times im¬ 
prisoned, and seven times put to the torture, for daring to think 
otherwise than those in power. It was, indeed, the age of per¬ 
secution. That which made it so bloody, was the vehemence of 
the struggle between the old world and the new—between 
thought and established dogma—between science and tradition. 
In every part of Europe—in Rome itself—men uprose to utter 
their new doctrines, and to shake off the chains which enslaved 
human intellect. It was the first great crisis in modern history, 
and we read its progress by the bonfires lighted in every town. 
The glare of the stake reddened a sky illumined by the fair au¬ 
roral light of Science. 

Did Bruno deserve to die ? According to the notions of that 
ige, he certainly did; though historians have, singularly enough, 
muzzled themselves in the search after an adequate motive for so 
severe a punishment. He had praised heretical princes; he had 
reasoned philosophically on matters of faith—properly the sub¬ 
jects of theology ; he had proclaimed liberty of thought, and in¬ 
vestigation ; he had disputed the infallibility of the Church in 
science; he had propagated such heresies as the rotation of the 
earth, and the infinity of worlds; he had refused to attend Mass; 
he had repeated many buffooneries then circulating, which threw 
contempt upon sacred things; finally, he had taught a system 
of Pantheism, which was altogether opposed to Christianity. 
He had done all this; and whoever knows the sixteenth century, 
will see that such an innovator had no chance of escape. Ac* 
28 


BSS 


FROM PROCLUS TO BACON. 


cordingly, the flames (as Scioppius sarcastically wrote in describ¬ 
ing the execution to a friend) “ carried him to those worlds which 
he imagined.” 

“As men die, so they walk among posterity,” is the felicitous 
remark of Monckton Milnes; and Bruno, like many other men, is 
better remembered for his death than for any thing he did while 
living. The flames which consumed his body have embalmed 
his name. He knew it would be so—“ La morte d’ un secolo fa 
vivo in tutti gli altri.” 

Considered as a system of philosophy, we cannot hesitate in 
saying that Bruno’s has only an historical, not an intrinsic value. 
Its condemnation is written in the fact of its neglect. But taken 
historically, his works are very curious, and still more so when 
we read them with a biographical interest; for they not only 
illustrate the epoch, but exhibit the man—exhibit his impetuos¬ 
ity, recklessness, vanity, imagination, buffoonery, his thoroughly 
Neapolitan character, and his sincere love of truth. Those who 
wish to see grave subjects treated with dignity, will object to the 
license he allows himself, and will have no tolerance for the bad 
taste he so often displays. But we should rather look upon these 
works as the rapid productions of a restless athlete—as the im¬ 
provisations of a full, ardent, but irregular mind, in an age when 
taste was less fastidious than it has since become. If Bruno 
mingled buffooneries and obscenities with grave and weighty 
topics, he therein only follows the general license of that age; 
and we must extend to him the same forgiveuess as to Bembo, 
Ariosto, Tansillo, and the rest. Plato himself is not whollv ex- 
empt from the same defect. 

In adopting the form of dialogue, Bruno also followed the 
taste of his age. It is a form eminently suited to polemical sub¬ 
jects; and all his works were polemical. It enabled him to rid¬ 
icule by turns the pedants, philosophers, and theologians; and 
to enunciate certain doctrines which even his temerity would 
have shrunk from, had he not been able to place them in the 
mouth of another. He makes his dialogues far more entertain- 


GIORDANO BRUNO. 


3S9 


ing than works of metaphysics usually are; and this he does by 
digressions, by ridicule, by eloquence, and a liberal introduction 
of sonnets. Sometimes his very vivacity becomes wearisome. 
The reader is stunned and bewildered by the remorseless torrent 
of substantives and epithets which pours from his too prolific 
pen. There is nobody to rival him, but Rabelais, in this flux of 
words.* His great butts are the clergy, and the philosophers. 
He reproaches the former with ignorance, avarice, hypocrisy, and 
the desire to stifle inquiry and prolong the reign of ignorance. 
The philosophers he reproaches with blind adherence to author¬ 
ity, with stupid reverence for Aristotle and Ptolemy, and with 
slavish imitation of antiquity. It should be observed that he 
does not so much decry Aristotle, as the idolatry of Aristotle.f 
Against the pedantry of that pedantic age he is always hurling 
his thunders. “ If,” says he, in one place, characterizing the 
pedant, “he laughs, he calls himself Democritus; if he weeps, it 
is with Heraclitus; when he argues, he is Aristotle; when he 
combines chimeras, he is Plato; when he stutters, he is Demos¬ 
thenes.” That Bruno’s scorn sprang from no misology, his own 
varied erudition proves. But while he studied the ancients to 
extract from them such eternal truths as were buried amidst a 
mass of error, they , the pedants, only studied how to deck them¬ 
selves in borrowed plumes. 

Turning from manner to matter, we must assign to Bruno a 
place in the history of philosophy, as a successor of the Neo- 
Platonists, and the precursor of Spinoza, Descartes, Leibnitz, and 

* To give the reader a taste of this quality, we will cite a sentence from 
the dedicatory epistle to Gli Eroici Furori: “ Che spettacolo, o Dio buono ! 
piu vile e ignobile pub presentarsi ad un occhio di terso sentimento, che un 
uomo cogitabundo, afflitto, tormentato, triste, maninconioso, per divenir or 
freddo, or caldo, or fervente, or tremante, or pallido, or rosso, or in mina di 
pcrplesso, or in atto dirisoluto, un, che spende il miglior intervallo di tempo 
destillando 1’ elixir del cervello con mettere scritto e sigillar in pubblici mon¬ 
ument!, quelle continue torture, que’ gravi tormenti, que’ razionali discorsi, 
que’ fatuosi pensieri, e quelli amarissimi studi, destinati sotto la tirannide 
d 1 una indegna imbecille stolta e sozza sporcaria?” Thus it continues foi 
some fifty lines more !— Opp. Ital. ii. 299. 

t Vide Opp. Ital. ii. 67, where this is explicitly stated. 



390 


FROM PROCLUS TO BACON. 


Schelling. That Spinoza and Descartes were actually conversant 
with the writings of Giordano Bruno, does not distinctly appear. 
Yet it is not to be disputed that Bruno anticipated Spinoza 
in his conception of the immanence of the Deity, in his famous 
natura naturans and natura naturata , and in his pantheistic 
theory of evolution. He also anticipated Descartes’ famous cri- 
terium of truth, viz. that whatever is clear and evident to the 
mind, and does not admit of contradiction, must be true; and in 
his proclamation of Doubt as opposed to Authority, he thus in¬ 
sists upon Doubt as the starting-point: “ Chi vuol perfettamente 
giudicare deve saper spogliarsi de la consuetudine di credere, deve 
V una e V altre contradittoria esistimare egualmente possibile, e 
dismettere a fatto quell ’ affezione di cui e imbibeto da nativita 
Leibnitz was avowedly acquainted with Bruno’s works, and de¬ 
rived therefrom his theory of monads. Schelling makes no secret 
of his obligations. 

There is another merit in Bruno which should not be over¬ 
looked, that, namely, of giving a strong impulse to the study ot 
Nature . Occupied with Syllogisms about entities and quiddities, 
the philosophy of the Middle Ages had missed the great truth 
that “ man is the minister and interpreter of nature.” Philoso¬ 
phy taught that the interpretation could proceed only from 
within ; that men were to look into their own minds to analyze, 
subdivide, and classify their own ideas, instead of looking forth 
into Nature, and patiently observing her processes.f Bruno was 
one of the first to call men out into the free air. With his poet¬ 
ical instinct, he naturally looked to Nature as the great book for 
man to read. He deified Nature ; and looked upon the Universe 
as the garment of God, as the incarnation of the divine activity. 
Let not this be misunderstood, however. If Bruno embraced 


* De V Infinite Universo e Mondi: Opp. Ital. ii. 84. 

t It is of them Telesio energetically says : “Sed veluti cum Deo de sapi- 
enti& contendentes decertantesque, mundi ipsius principia et causas ratione in- 
quirere ausi, et quae non invenerant, inventa ea sibi esse existimantes, volen- 
tesque, veluti suo arbitratu, mundum affluxere .”—De lierum Natura. in 
Prooem. 






GIORDANO BRUNO. 


391 


die Copernican theory, and combated the general physics of his 
day, he is not, on that account, to be mistaken for a man of sci¬ 
entific Method. He espoused the correct view of the earth’s 
sphericity and rotation; but he did so on the faith of his meta¬ 
physical theories, not on rigorous induction. 

Bruno’s creed was Pantheism. God was the Infinite Intelli¬ 
gence, the Cause erf Causes, the Principle of all life and mind; 
the great Activity, whose action we name the Universe. But 
God did not create the universe; he informed it with life—with 
being. He is the universe; but only as the cause is the effect, 
sustaining it, causing it, but not limited by it. He is self-exist¬ 
ing, yet so essentially active as incessantly to manifest himself as 
a Cause. Between the supreme Being and the inferior beings 
dependent upon him, there is this distinction: He is absolutely 
simple, without parts. He is one whole, identical and universal; 
whereas the others are mere individual parts, distinct from the 
great Whole. Above and beyond the visible universe there is 
an Infinite Invisible,—an immovable, unalterable Identity, which 
rules over all diversity. This Being of Beings, this Unity of 
Unities, is God: “Deus est monadum monas, nempe entium 
entitas.” 

Bruno says, that although it is impossible to conceive nature 
separated from God, we can conceive God separated from nature. 
The infinite Being* is the essential centre and substance of the 
universe, but he is above the essence and substance of all things: 
he is superessentialis, supersubstantialis. Thus we cannot con¬ 
ceive a thought independent of a mind, but we can conceive a 
mind apart from any one thought. The universe is a thought 
of God’s mind—nay more, it is the infinite activity of his mind. 
To suppose the world finite is to limit his power. “ Wherefore 
should we imagine that the Divine activity (la divina ejficacia) 
is idle ? Wherefore should we say that the Divine goodness, 
which can communicate itself ad infinitum , and infinitely diffuse 
tself, is willing to restrict itself? Why should his infinite capa¬ 
city be frustrated—defrauded of its possibility to create infinite 


392 


FROM PROCLUS TO BACON. 


worlds ? And why should we deface the excellence of the Di 
vine image, which should rather reflect itself in an infinite mirror 
as his nature is infinite and immense ?”* 

Bruno admits the existence of only one intelligence, and that 
is God. Est JDeus in nobis. This intelligence, which is perfect 
in God, is less perfect in inferior spirits; still less so in man; 
more and more imperfect in the lower gradations of created be¬ 
ings. But all these differences are differences of degree, not of 
kind. The inferior order of beings do not understand them¬ 
selves, but they have a sort of language. In the superior orders 
of beings, intelligence arrives at the point of self-consciousness— 
they understand themselves, and those below them. Man, who 
occupies the middle position in the hierarchy of creation, is ca¬ 
pable of contemplating every phasis of life. He sees God above 
him—he sees around him traces of the divine activity. These 
traces, which attest the immutable order of the universe, constitute 
the soul of the world. To collect them, and connect them with 
the Being whence they issue, is the noblest function of the human 
mind. Bruno further teaches that, in proportion as man labors 
in this direction, he discovers that these traces, spread abroad in 
nature, do not differ from the ideas which exist in his own mind.f 
He thus arrives at the perception of the identity between the 
soul of the world, and his own soul, both as reflections of the Di¬ 
vine intelligence. He is thus led to perceive the identity of 
Subject and Object, of Thought and Being. 

Such is the faint outline of a doctrine, to preach which, Bruno 
became a homeless wanderer and a martyr; as he loftily says, 
“ Con questa filosofia 1’ anima mi s’ aggrandisce, e mi si magni- 
jica V intelletto .” If not original, this doctrine has at any rate 
the merit of poetical grandeur. In it deep thoughts, wrestling 

* De V Infinite: Opp. Ital. ii. 24. 

+ “ Ei.p. : What is the purpose of the senses ?—Fil. : Solely to excite the 
reason ; to indicate the truth, but not to judge of it. Truth is in the sensi¬ 
ble object as in a mirror ; in the reason, as a matter of argument; in the 
intellect, as a principle and conclusion; but in the mind it has its true and 
proper form.”— De V Infinite , p. 18. 



GIORDANO BRUNO. 


393 


with imperfect language, do get some sort of utterance. As a 
system, it is more imaginative than logical; hut to many minds 
it would be all the more acceptable on that account. Coleridge 
used to say, and with truth, that imagination was the greatest 
faculty of the philosopher; and Bruno said, “Philosophi sunt 
quodammodo pictores atque poetie. . . . Non est philosophic* 
nisi fingit et pingit.” Little as the dull man of science may be 
aware of it, the great faculty of imagination is indispensable even 
to his science: it is the great telescope with which we look into 
the infinite. But in metaphysics imagination plays a still greater 
part: it there reigns as a queen. 

The works of Bruno are mostly in Italian, Latin having been 
happily reserved by him for the logical treatises. The volumes 
which we owe to the honorable diligence and love of philosophy 
of Adolph Wagner, open with the comedy, II Candela jo, which 
was adapted to the French stage under the title of Boniface le 
Pedant, from which Cyrano de Bergerac took his Pedant Joue, 
—a piece which in its turn was plundered by Moliere, who, with 
charming wit and candor, avows it: “Ces deux scenes (in Cy¬ 
rano) etaient bonnes; elles m’appartenaient de plein droit; on 
reprend son lien partout oil on le trouvel* According to 


* This is, perhaps, the wittiest of all the variations of the “ pereant male 
qui ante nos nostra dixissent.” The Chevalier D’Aceilly’s version is worth 
citing: 

“ Dis-je quelque chose assez belle ? 

L’antiquite tout en cervelle 
Pretend l’avoir dite avant moi. 

C’est une plaisante donzelle ! 

Que ne venait-elle apres moi ? 

J’aurais dit la chose avant elle!” 

While on this subject, we cannot resist Piron’s lines; 

“ Us ont dit, il est vrai, presque tout ce qu’on pense. 

Leurs eerits sont des vols qu’ils nous ont faits d’avance. 

Mais le remede est simple ; ii faut faire comme eux, 

Us nous ont derobes ; derobons nos neveux. 

Un demon triomphant m’elcve a cet emploi: 

Malheur aux 6crivains qui viendront apres moi 1” 

La Metromarnc. 



394 


FROM PROCLUS TO BACON. 


Charles Nodier, Moliere was indebted to Bruno for several 
scenes; but it is difficult to settle questions of plagiarism. Bruno’s 
comedy is long, full of absurd incidents and Neapolitan buffoon¬ 
ery, and might have suggested a good deal to such a prolific 
mind as Moliere’s. In it he has exhibited “the amorousness ot 
one old man named Bonifacio, the sordid avarice of another 
named Bartolomeo, and the pedantry, not less sordid, of a third 
named Manfurio.” Ladies of vacillating virtue, soldiers, sailors, 
and scamps concert together to deceive these three old men, and 
wring money from their sensuality, their avarice, and their super¬ 
stition. Bonifacio, desperately in love with Yittoria, is never¬ 
theless alarmed at the enormous expense necessary to make his 
addresses acceptable. He had recourse to Scaramure, a reputed 
magician, who sells him a wax figure, which he is to melt, and 
thus melt the obdurate heart of his fair one. After a succession 
of disasters, Bonifacio is seized by pretended police, who force 
from him a heavy ransom. Bartolomeo becomes the dupe ot 
Cencio, an impostor, who sells him a receipt for making gold. 
Manfurio, the pedant, is beaten, robbed, and ridiculed through¬ 
out. The sensualism and niggardliness of Bonifacio, and the 
pedantry of Manfurio, are hit off with true comic spirit; aud the 
dialogue, though rambling and diffuse, is enlivened by lazzi —not 
always the most decent, it is true—and crowded with proverbs. 
Dramatic art there is none: the persons come on and talk; they 
are succeeded by fresh actors, who, having talked, also retire to 
give place to others. The whole play leaves a very confused im¬ 
pression. The hits at alchemy and pedantry were, doubtless, 
highly relished in those days. 

It is very strange to pass from this comedy to the work which 
succeeds it in Wagner’s edition, La Cena de le Ceneri. In five 
dialogues he combats the hypothesis of the world’s immobility; 
proclaims the infinity of the universe, and warns us against seek¬ 
ing its centre or circumference. He enlarges on the difference 
between appearances and reality in celestial phenomena; argues 
that our globe is made of the same substance as the other plan- 


GIORDANO BRUNO. 


395 


ets, and that every thing which is, is living, so that the world 
may be likened to a huge animal.* In this work he also an¬ 
swers his objectors, who bring against his system the authority 
of Scripture, exactly in the same way as modern geologists an¬ 
swer the same objection, viz. by declaring that the revelation in 
the Bible was a moral not a physical revelation. It did not pre¬ 
tend to teach science, but, on the contrary, adopted ordinary 
notions, and expressed itself in the language intelligible to the 
vulgar.f In this work there are some digressions more than 
usually interesting to us, because they refer to the social condi¬ 
tion of England during Elizabeth’s reign. 

The two works, De la Causa and De V Infinito , contain the 
most matured and connected exposition of his philosophical opin¬ 
ions. As our space will not admit of an analysis, we must refer 
to that amply given by M. Bartholmess.j; The Spaccio de la 
Bestia Trionfante is the most celebrated of all his writings. It 
was translated by Toland, in 1713, who printed only a very few 
copies, as if wishing it to fall into the hands of only a few choice 
readers. The very title has been a sad puzzle to the world, and 
has led to the strangest suppositions. The “Triumphant Beast,” 
which Bruno undertakes to expel, is none other than this: an¬ 
cient astronomy disfigured the heavens with animals as constel- 
jations, and under guise of expelling these, he attacks the great 
beast (superstition) whose predominance causes men to believe 
that the stars influence human affairs. In his Cabala del Ca - 
vallo Pegaseo , he sarcastically calls the ass “ la bestia trionfante 
viva,” and indites a sonnet in praise of that respectable quad¬ 
ruped : 


* An idea borrowed from Plato, who, in the Timceus , says, OS™? ovv 6'n 
Kara \oybv rbv tlicdra bcT \eyeiv rrfwie rov udapov t,ioov ipxpvxov cvvovv re rrj aXt/dciy 
bid ti)v rov 6eou yevtodai npdvoiav. —p. 26, ed. Bekker. Compare also Politicus , 
p. 273. Bruno may have taken this directly from Plato, or he might have 
learned it from the work of his countryman, Telesio, De Rerum Natura. 

t “ Secondo il senso volgare et ordinario modo di comprendere e parlare.” 
The "whole of the early portion of Dialogue 4 (in which this distinction ia 
maintained) is worth consulting.— Opere , i. 172 sq. 

X Vol. ii. pp. 128-154. 


1 



396 


FROM PROCLUS TO BACON. 


“ Oh sant’ asinita, sant’ ignoranza, 

Santa stoltizia, e pia divozione, 

Qual sola pnoi far P anima si Duone 

C1P urnan ingegno e studio non Pavanza!” etc. 

The Spaccio is an attack upon the superstitions of the clay,—a 
war against ignorance, and “that orthodoxy without morality, 
and without belief, which is the ruin of all justice and virtue.” 
Morality, Bruno fancifully calls “the astronomy of the heart;” 
but did not even Bacon call it “ the Georgies of the mind ?” 
The Spaccio is a strange medley of learning, imagination, and 
buffoonery; and on the whole, perhaps the most tiresome of all 
liis writings. M. Bartholmess, whose admiration for Bruno 
greatly exceeds our own, says of it: “ The mythology and sym¬ 
bolism of the ancients is there employed with as much tact as 
erudition. The fiction that the modern world is still governed 
by Jupiter and the court of Olympus, the mixture of reminis¬ 
cences of chivalry, and the marvels of the middle ages, with the 
tales and traditions of antiquity—all those notions which have 
given birth to the philosophy of mythology, of religions, and of 
history—the Vicos and the Creuzers—this strange medley makes 
the Spaccio so interesting. The philosopher there speaks the 
noble language of a moralist. As each virtue in its turn appears 
to replace the vices which disfigure the heavens, it learns from 
Jupiter all it has to do, all it has to avoid : all its attributes are 
enumerated and explained, and mostly personified in the allegor¬ 
ical vein; all the dangers and excesses it is to avoid are charac¬ 
terized with the same vigor. Every page reveals a rare talent 
for psychological observation, a profound knowledge of the heart, 
and of contemporary society. The passions are subtly analyzed 
and well painted. That which still more captivates the thought¬ 
ful reader is the sustained style of his long fiction, which may be 
regarded as a sort of philosophic sermon. Truth and wisdom, 
justice and candor, take the place in the future now occupied 
by error, folly, and falsehood of every species. In this last re¬ 
spect the Sg)accio has sometimes the style of the Apocalypse.” 

Without impugning the justice of this criticism, we must add. 


GIORDANO BRUNO. 


397 


that the Spaccio taxes even a bookworm’s patience, and ought 
to be read with a liberal license in skipping. 

Perhaps of all his writings, Gli Eroici Furori is that which 
would most interest a modern reader, not curious about the phi¬ 
losophical speculations of the Neapolitan. Its prodigality of son¬ 
nets, and its mystic exaltation, carry us at once into the heart of 
that epoch of Italian culture when poetry and Plato were the 
great studies of earnest men. In it Bruno, avowing himself a 
disciple of Petrarch, proclaims a Donna more exalted than Laura, 
more adorable than all earthly beauty: that Donna is the imper¬ 
ishable image of Divine Perfection. It is unworthy of a man, he 
says, to languish for a woman ; to sacrifice to her all those 
energies and faculties of a great soul, which might be devoted 
to the pursuit of the Divine. Wisdom, which is truth and 
beauty in one, is the idol adored by the genuine hero. Love 
woman if you will, but remember that you are also a lover of the 
Infinite. Truth is the food of every heroic soul; hunting for 
Truth the only occupation worthy of a hero.* The reader of 
Plato will trace here a favorite image; and was it not Berkeley 
who defined Truth as the cry of all, but the game few run down ? 


* Vick, in particular, the fine passage, Opp. Ital. ii. 4Q6-7. 



J 


FIRST EPOCH. 

FOUNDATION OF THE INDUCTIVE METHOD. 


§ I. The Life of Bacon. 

Francis Bacon was born on tbe 22d January, 1561. Mr. 
Basil Montagu, the laborious and affectionate (we had almost 
said idolatrous) biographer of Bacon, wishes us to believe that 
the family was ancient and illustrious; and favors us with rhe¬ 
torical flourishes about Bacon retiring to the “ halls of his an¬ 
cestors.” This is somewhat different from the story of Bacon’s 
grandfather having kept the sheep of the Abbot of Bury.* 

But although we can claim for Bacon no illustrious ancestry, 
we must not forget his excellent parentage. His father, Sir 
Nicholas, was generally considered as ranking next to the great 
Burleigh as a statesman. His mother, Anne, daughter of Sir 
Anthony Cooke, “ was distinguished both as a linguist and as a 
theologian. She corresponded in Greek with Bishop Jewel, and 
translated his Apologia from the Latin so correctly, that neither 
he nor Bishop Parker could suggest a single alteration.”! 

His health was very delicate, which made him sedentary and 
reflective. Of his youth we know little, but that little displays 


* See this question of lineage, and a great many other curious points, 
satisfactorily settled in an article on the Lives of Bacon, London Review, 
Jan. 1836. 

f Edinb. Review , July, 1837, p. 9. This is the brilliant article on Bacon, 
by Macaulay, which has excited so much attention. It is reprinted in his 
Essays. 




THE LIFE OF BACON. 


399 


the reflective tendency of his mind. At the age of twelve he 
discussed the point as to how a juggler could tell the card of 
which a man thought: he at first ascribed it to a confederacy 
between the juggler and the servants, till he at last discovered 
the law of the mind on which the trick depends. We hear also 
of his leaving his playfellows to examine the cause of an echo 
which he had observed in a vault. At thirteen he was entered 
at Trinity College, Cambridge, where he soon felt a profound 
contempt for the course of study pursued there, and an inveterate 
scorn for Aristotle and his followers. It is said that he there 
planned his Novum Organum ; but this is highly improbable. 
What he did was perhaps to sketch some new scheme of philo¬ 
sophical study, originated by his contempt for that in vogue. 
There must however be a wide difference between the sketch 
of a boy, prompted by contempt for reigning opinions, and 
the wise maturity of his greatest, work, the fruit of a life’s medi¬ 
tations. 

On leaving Cambridge, he visited Paris, Poitiers, and other 
parts of France, from whence he was recalled on the sudden 
death of his father. “ Being returned from travaile,” says Dr. 
Rowley, “ he applyed himself to the study of the Common Law, 
which he took upon him to be his profession; in which he ob¬ 
tained to great excellency, though he made that (as himself said) 
but as an accessory, and not as his principal study.” 

In 1590, he sat in Parliament as Member for Middlesex. He 
soon became distinguished as an orator and as a debater. We 
have the testimony of an admirable judge to assure us that 
Bacon’s oratory was worthy of his other powers. Ben Jonson 
thus writes: “ There happened, in my time, one noble speaker, 
who was full of gravity in his speaking. His language, where 
he could spare or pass by a jest, was nobly censorious. No man 
ever spoke more neatly, more pressly, more weightily, or suffered 
less emptiness, less idleness, in what he uttered. No member of 
his speech but consisted of his own graces. His hearers could 
not cough or look aside from him without loss. He commanded 


400 


THE LIFE OF BACON. 


when he spoke, and had his judges angry or pleased at his de¬ 
votion.”* 

A grave biographical question, namely that of Bacon’s politi¬ 
cal and moral conduct, must be passed over by us without a word 
of comment, because the question is too complicated and critical 
for any succinct narrative.f Let us pass on to the year 1616, 
when Sir Francis Bacon was sworn of the Privy Council; and 
in March, 1617, on the retirement of Lord Brackley, was ap¬ 
pointed Keeper of the Great Seal. His administration was any 
thing but pure. He was the tool of Buckingham, who was alto¬ 
gether unscrupulous. On his own account, too, he accepted 
large presents from persons engaged in Chancery suits. His 
enemies reckoned his gains in this way at a hundred thousand 
pounds: an immense sum in those days, and probably exagger¬ 
ated. His works had spread his fame throughout Europe. He 
had also been created Baron Verulam; and subsequently Vis¬ 
count St. Alban’s. We have every reason to believe that he 
valued this title more highly than that of the author of the In- 
atauratio Magna ; but, as Mr. Macaulay remarks, posterity, in 
defiance of royal letters-patent, has obstinately refused to degrade 
Francis Bacon into Viscount St. Alban’s. 

In the height of this prosperity a terrible reverse was at hand. 
He was accused of corruption, and was impeached. His re¬ 
morse and dejection of mind were dreadful. “ During several 
days he remained in his bed, refusing to see any human being. 
He passionately told his attendants to leave him—to forget him 
—never again to name his name—never to remember that there 
had been such a man in the world.” The charges against him 
were such that the King, impotent to save him, advised him to 


* Ben Jonson, Underwoods. In the Discoveries , Beil also speaks admir¬ 
ingly and affectionately of him. 

t In the former edition, Mr. Macaulay’s view of this question was 
adopted ; but on the eve of the appearance of that long-promised edition of 
Bacon’s works, in which Mr. Spedding is to give the results of his ex- 
naustive study of this question, it seems desirable not to repeat statements 
which may turn out error eous when all the evidence is produced. 



THE LIFE OF BACON. 


401 


plead guilty. He did so. The sentence he received was severe : 
a fine of forty thousand pounds, and to be imprisoned in the 
Tower during the King’s pleasure. He was declared incapable 
of holding any office in the State, or of sitting in Parliament, 
and was banished for life from the verge of the Court. 

This sentence was not executed. He was sent, indeed, to the 
Tower, but at the end of the second day he was released. His 
fine was remitted by the Grown. He was soon allowed to pre¬ 
sent himself at Court; and in 1624 the rest of his sentence was 
remitted. He was at liberty to sit in the House of Lords, and 
was summoned to the next Parliament. He did not, however, 
attend : age, infirmity, and perhaps shame, prevented him. 

In his retirement, he devoted himself to literature; and 
amongst other works published his wonderful treatise De Aug- 
mentis , which, though only an expansion of his Advancement of 
Learning , may nevertheless be regarded as a new work.* * 

“ The great apostle of experimental philosophy,” says Mr. Ma¬ 
caulay, “ was destined to be its martyr. It had occurred to him 
that snow might be used with advantage for the purpose of pre¬ 
venting animal substances from putrefying. On a very cold day, 
early in the spring of the year 1626, he alighted from his coach 
near Highgate, to try the experiment. He \vent into a cottage, 
bought a fowl, and with his own hands stuffed it with snow. 
While thus engaged, he felt a sudden chill, and was so much in¬ 
disposed, that it was impossible for him to return to Gray’s Inn. 
After an illness of about a week, he expired on the morning of 
Easter-day, 1626. His mind appears to have retained its strength 
and liveliness to the end. He did not forget the fowl which had 
caused his death. In the last letter that he ever wrote, with fin¬ 
gers which, as he said, could not steadily hold a pen, he did not 
omit to mention that the experiment of the snow had succeeded 
excellently well.” 

* “ I find, upon comparison, that more than two-thirds of this treatise are 
a version, with slight interpolation or omission, from the Advancement of 
Learning , the remainder being new matter.”—Ilallam, History of Literature 

*f Europe , iii. 16£. 



402 


BACON. 


Bacon, when dying, did not disguise from himself the mournfu 
fact, that if he had thought profoundly, he had acted unworthily 
Knowing at once his errors and his greatness, he said, “ For my 
name and memory, I leave it to men’s charitable speeches, aud 
to foreign nations, and to the next age.” His confidence was 
well placed. Leniently as we cannot but think him to have 
been treated by his contemporaries, posterity has been still more 
gracious; and the reason is felicitously expressed by Macaulay : 
“ Turn where we will, the trophies of that mighty intellect are 
full in view. We are judging Manlius in sight of the Capitol .” 

§ Bacon’s Method. 

Bacon is commonly styled the Father of Experimental Philos¬ 
ophy. Was he the first great experimentalist? No. Was he 
the most successful experimentalist? No. Was he the dis¬ 
coverer of some of those great laws, the application of which is 
the occupation of succeeding generations—was he a Copernicus, 
a Galileo, a Kepler, a Torricelli, a Harvey, or a Newton ? No. 

He owes this title to his Method, as will be understood after the 
following sketch, in which we shall follow Professor Playfair’s 
exposition in his Dissertation on the Progress of Physical Sci¬ 
ence, prefixed to the Encyclopaedia Britannica. 

Before laying down the rules of his Method, Bacon proceeds 
to enumerate the causes of error—the Idols , as he terms them, 
in his figurative language, or false divinities, to which the mind 
had so long been accustomed to bow.* He considered this enu¬ 
meration as the more necessary, that the same idols were likely tc 
return, even after the reformation of science. 

These idols he divides into four classes, viz.: 

Idola Tribhs.Idols of the Tribe. 

Idola Spectis.Idols of the Den. 

Idola Fori.Idols of the Forum. 

Idola Theatri.Idols of the Theatre. 

* Mr. Hallam was the first to point out the mistake which all modern 
writers have made respecting the meaning of the word Idol, as used by Ba¬ 
ton; which does not mean idol , but false appearance (sMwAov). See the 
passage in Hallam’s Lit. of Europe , iii. 194-6. 




bacon’s method. 


403 


1. The Idols of the Tribe are the causes of error founded on 
human nature in general. “The mind,” he observes, “is not 
like a plane mirror, which reflects the images of things exactly 
as they are; it is like a mirror of an uneven surface, which com¬ 
bines its own figure with the figures of the objects it represents.” 

Among the idols of this class, we may reckon the propensity 
which there is in all men to find a greater degree of order, sim¬ 
plicity, and regularity, than is actually indicated by observa¬ 
tion. Thus, as soon as men perceived the orbits of the planets 
to return iuto themselves, they immediately supposed them to be 
perfect circles, and the motion in those circles to be uniform; 
and to these hypotheses the astronomers and mathematicians of 
all antiquity labored incessantly to reconcile their observations. 

The propensity which Bacon has here characterized, may be 
called the spirit of system. 

2. The Idols of the Den are those which spring from the pe¬ 
culiar character of the individual. Besides the causes of error 
common to all mankind, each individual has his own dark cav¬ 
ern, or den, into which the light is imperfectly admitted, and in 
the obscurity of which a tutelary idol lurks, at whose shrine the 
truth is often sacrificed. 

Some minds are best adapted to mark the differences of things, 
others to catch at the resemblances of things. Steady and pro¬ 
found understandings are disposed to attend carefully, to proceed 
slowly, and to examine the most minute differences; while those 
that are sublime and active, are ready to lay hold of the slightest 
resemblances. Each of these easily runs into excess; the one 
by catching continually at distinctions, the other at affinities. 

3. The Idols of the Forum are those which arise out of the 
intercourse of society, and those also which arise from lan¬ 
guage. 

Men believe that their thoughts govern their words; but it 
also happens, by a certain kind of reaction, that their words fre¬ 
quently govern their thoughts. This is the more pernicious, 
that words, being generally the work of the multitude, divide 
29 


m 


BACON. 


tilings according to the lines most conspicuous to vulgar appre 
liensions. Hence, when words are examined, few instances are 
found in which, if at all abstract, they convey ideas tolerably 
precise and defined. 

4. The Idols of the Theatre are the deceptions which have 
arisen from the dogmas of different schools. 

As many systems as existed, so many representations of im¬ 
aginary worlds had been brought upon the stage. Hence the 
name of Idola Theatri. They do not enter the mind impercep¬ 
tibly like the other three; a man must labor to acquire them, 
and they are often the result of great learning and study. 

After these preliminary discussions, Bacon proceeds, in the 
Second Book of his Organum , to describe and exemplify the 
nature of induction. 

The first object must be to prepare a history of the phenomena 
to be explained, in all their modifications and varieties. This 
history is to comprehend not only all such facts as spontaneously 
offer themselves, but all the experiments instituted for the sake oj 
discovery , or for any of the purposes of the useful arts. It ought 
to be composed with great care ; the facts accurately related and 
distinctly arranged; their authenticity diligently examined; 
those that rest on doubtful evidence, though not rejected, yet 
noted as uncertain, with the grounds of the judgment so formed. 
This last is very necessary, for facts often appear incredible only 
because we are ill-informed, and cease to appear marvellous when 
our knowledge is further extended. This record of facts is Nat¬ 
ural History. 

The Natural History being prepared of any class of phenom¬ 
ena, the next object is to discover, by a comparison of the differ¬ 
ent facts, the cause of these phenomena, or, as Bacon calls it, the 
form. The form of any quality in a body is something convert¬ 
ible with that quality; that is, where it exists the quality exists: 
thus, if transparency in bodies be the thing inquired after, the 
form of it is something found wherever there is transparency. 
Thus form differs from cause in this onlv: we call it form 01 es- 


bacon’s method. 


405 


sence, when the effect is a permanent quality; we call it cause , 
when the effect is a change or an event. 

Two other subjects, subordinate to forms , but often essential to 
the knowledge of them, are also occasionally subjects of investiga¬ 
tion. These are the latent process, la tens jwocessus ; and the la¬ 
tent schematism, latens schematisms. The former is the secret 
and invisible progress by which sensible changes are brought 
about, and seems, in Bacon’s acceptation, to involve the principle 
since called the law of continuity, according to which no change, 
however small, can be effected but in time. To know the rela¬ 
tion between the time and the change effected in it, would be to 
have a perfect knowledge of the latent process. In the firing of 
a cannon, for example, the succession of events during the short 
interval between the application of the match and the expulsion 
of the ball, constitutes a latent process of a very remarkable and 
complicated nature, which, however, we can now trace with 
some degree of accuracy. 

The latent schematism is that invisible structure of bodies on 
which so many of their properties depend. When we inquire 
into the constitution of crystals, or into the internal structure of 
plants, etc., we are examining into the latent schematism. 

In order to inquire into the form of any thing by induction, 
having brought together all the facts, we are to begin with consid¬ 
ering what things are thereby excluded from the number of pos¬ 
sible forms. This conclusion is the first part of the process of 
induction. Thus, if we are inquiring into the quality which is 
the cause of transparency in bodies; from the fact that the dia¬ 
mond is transparent, we immediately exclude rarity or porosity 
as well as fluidity from these causes, the diamond being a very- 
solid and dense body. 

Negative instances, or those where the form is wanting, to be 
also collected. 

That glass when pounded is not transparent, is a negative fact, 
when the form of transparency is inquired into; also, that col¬ 
lections of vapors have not transparency. The facts thus col 


406 


BACON. 


lected, both negative and affirmative, should, for the sake of ref¬ 
erence, be reduced to tables. 

Bacon exemplifies his Method on the subject of Heat; and 
though his collection of facts is imperfect, his method of treating 
them is extremely judicious,* and the whole disquisition highly 
interesting. 

After a great many exclusions have been made, and left but 
few principles common to every case, one of these is to be as¬ 
sumed as the cause; and by reasoning from it synthetically, we 
aro to try if it will account for the phenomena. So necessary 
did this exclusive process appear to Bacon, that he says, “ It may, 
perhaps, be competent to angels or superior intelligences to de¬ 
termine the form or essence directly, by affirmations from the 
first consideration of the subject; but it is certainly beyond the 
power of man, to whom it is only given to proceed at first by 
negatives, and in the last place to end in affirmatives, after the 
exclusion of every thing else.” 

There is, however, great difference in the value of facts. Some 
of them show the thing sought for in the highest degree, some 
in the lowest; some exhibit it simple and uncombined, in others 
it appears confused with a variety of circumstances. Some facts 
are easily interpreted, others are very obscure, and are understood 
only in consequence of the light thrown on them by the former. 
This led Bacon to his consideration of Prerogative Instances , or 
the comparative value of facts as means of discovery. He enu¬ 
merates twenty-seven different species: but we must content our¬ 
selves with giving only the most important. 

I. Instantice solitaries: which are either examples of the same 
quality existing in two bodies otherwise different, or of a quality 
differing in two bodies otherwise the same. In the first instance 
the bodies differ in all things but one; in the second they agree 
in all but one. Thus, if the cause or form of color be inquired 


* This is Playfair’s judgment; a different opinion will presently be quoted 
from John Mill. 




bacon’s method. 


407 


into, instanti.ee solitarice are found in crystals, prisms, drops of 
dew, which occasionally exhibit color, and yet have nothing in 
common with the stones, flowers, and metals which possess color 
permanently, except the color itself. Hence Bacon concludes 
that color is nothing else than a modification of the rays of light, 
produced in the first case by the different degrees of incidence ; 
and second, by the texture or constitution of the surface of bodies. 
He may be considered as very fortunate in fixing on these exam¬ 
ples, for it was by means of them that Newton afterwards found 
out the composition of light. 

II. The instantice migrantes exhibit some property of the 
body passing from one condition to another, either from less to 
greater or from greater to less; arriving nearer perfection in the 
first case, or verging towards extinction in the second. 

Suppose the thing inquired into were the cause of whiteness 
in bodies; an instantia migrans is found in glass, which entire 
is colorless, but pulverized becomes white. The same is the case 
with water unbroken or dashed into foam. 

III. The instantice ostensivee are the facts which show some 
particular property in its highest state of power and energy, 
when it is either freed from impediments which usually counter¬ 
act it, or is itself of such force as entirely to repress those im¬ 
pediments. 

If the weight of air were inquired into, the Torricellian ex¬ 
periment, or the barometer, affords an ostensive instance , where 
the circumstance which conceals the weight of the atmosphere 
in common cases, namely the pressure of it in all directions, be¬ 
ing entirely removed, that weight produces its full effect, and 
sustains the whole column of mercury in the tube. 

IV. The instances called analogous or parallel consist of facts 
between which a resemblance or analogy is visible in some par¬ 
ticulars, notwithstanding great diversity in all the rest. Such 
are the telescope and microscope compared to the eye. It was 
the experiment of the camera obscura which led to the discovery 
of the formation of images of external objects in the bottom of 


408 


BACON. 


the eye by the action of the crystalline lens, and other humor.* 
of which the eye is formed. 

Y. Instantice comitatus: examples of certain qualities which 
always accompany one another. Such are flame and heat: flame 
being always accompanied by heat, and the same degree of heat 
in a given substance being always accompanied with flame. 

Hostile instances, or those of perpetual separation, are the re¬ 
verse of the former. Thus transparency and malleability in solids 
are never combined. 

VI. The instantia crucis. When in any investigation the un¬ 
derstanding is placed in cequilibrio , as it were, between tw r o or 
more causes, each of which accounts equally well for the appear¬ 
ances as far as they are known, nothing remains to be done, but 
to look out for a fact which can be explained by one of these 
causes and not by the other. Such facts perform the office of a 
cross, erected at the separation of two roads, to direct the travel • 
ler which to take: hence called crucial instances. 

The experimentum crucis is of such weight in matters of in¬ 
duction, that in all those branches of science where it cannot be 
resorted to (an experiment being out of our power and incapable 
of being varied at pleasure) there is often a great want of con¬ 
clusive evidence. 

§ III. The Spirit of Bacon’s Method. 

We may now resume the question of Bacon’s claim to the 
title of Father of Experimental Science. That which distin¬ 
guishes his conception of philosophy from all previous concep¬ 
tions is the systematization of graduated Verification, as the sole 
Method of research. Others before him, notably Albertus 
Magnus, had insisted on some parts of the experimental Method; 
his great predecessor and namesake, Roger Bacon, had, in the 
Opus Majus , insisted on experience as the truest guide, and had 
distributed the causes of error under four heads (Authority, Cus¬ 
tom, Vulgar Prejudice, and False Science), but no one had co¬ 
ordinated into a compact body of doctrine all the elements of 


THE SPIRIT OF BACON’S METHOD. 


409 


the Inductive Method; and it is in this co-ordination that Ba¬ 
con’s great merit lies. Roger Bacon had said that “ experience 
alone gives accurate knowledge. Reasoning concludes, but estab¬ 
lishes nothing; even mathematical demonstration gives no com¬ 
plete and certain conviction without this sanction. But this 
experimental science is entirely unknown to the many. It has 
three grand prerogatives relatively to the other kindc of knowl¬ 
edge. The first is, that experiment proves and verifies by its in¬ 
vestigations the highest propositions which the other sciences can 
present. The second is, that this method, which alone merits 
the name of mistress of speculative knowledge^ can alone attain 
to those sublime truths which other sciences cannot reach; in 
experimental truths the mind must not seek for the reason of 
things before the testimony of facts, nor reject those facts because 
it cannot justify them by argument. The third prerogative is 
so peculiar to this method that it is independent of its relations 
with the others : it consists in two points, namely, in the knowl¬ 
edge of the future, the present, and the past, and in the admira¬ 
ble operations in which it surpasses judicial astrology.”* Many 
—from Socrates downwards—had insisted on Induction; but the 
Induction they conceived was that which Bacon calls inductio 
per enumerationem simplicem , and which consists in “ ascribing 
the character of general truths to all propositions which are true 
in every instance that we happen to know ofan induction 
perpetually made in the loose latitude of common talk, and in 
the less pardonable laxity of common literature. It is the natural 
and instinctive action of the mind, and is thus distinguished from 
the circumspect Method of Science. The real merit of Bacon’s 
conception was his accurate detection of this natural source of 

* This passage, translated from M. Kousselot’s Etudes, iii. 189, is not prop¬ 
erly Bacon’s, but an abstract of the doctrines developed and exemplified in 
the sixth part of the Opus Majus, pp. 445-477 of the London edition, 1783. 
The four causes of error are mentioned in p. 2 of the same edition : “ Fragi- 
lis et indignae auctoritatis exemplum, consuetudinis diuturnitas, vulgi sensus 
imperiti, et propriae ignorantiae occultatio cum ostentatione sapientiae appa- 
rentis.” 




410 


BACON. 


error, and his insistance on the wider and more circumspect 
Method of Verification. 

He did not content himself with telling men to make observa¬ 
tions and experiments: he told them how observations and ex¬ 
periments ought to be made. He did not content himself with 
stating the proper mode of investigation to be that of Induc¬ 
tion founded upon facts : he distinguished proper from impro¬ 
per inductions—the “interrogation” from the “anticipation” of 
N at ure. 

He did this, and he did more. His Method may be said to 
have two parts: the one, that precise system of rules we have 
just quoted; the other, that wise and pre-eminently scientific, 
spirit which breathes through his works. The latter is expressed 
in wise and weighty aphorisms which form perpetual texts for 
philosophic writers, and reveal the magnificence and profundity 
of his intellect. It is in these he shows how completely he saw 
through the false methods of his day, and how justly he is en¬ 
titled the Father of Positive Science. 

These aphorisms form, as we have said, perpetual texts. They 
are quoted on all occasions when Method is treated of. We 
cannot however resist quoting a half-dozen of them here, because 
of their exceeding value, and of their fitness as illustrations of 
his greatness : 

I. Man, the minister and interpreter of Nature, can act and 
understand in as far as he has, either in fact or in thought, ob- 
served the order of Nature; more he can neither know nor do. 

II. The real cause and root of almost all the evils in science 
is this : that, falsely magnifying and extolling the 'powers of the 
mind , we seek not its real helps. 

III. There are two ways of searching after and discovering 
truth: the one, from sense and particulars, rises directly to the 
most general axioms, and resting upon these principles, and their 
unshaken truth, finds out intermediate axioms, and this is the 
method in use; but the other raises axioms from sense and par- 
ticu'ars by a continued and gradual ascent , till at last it arrives 


THE SPIRIT OF BACON’S METHOD. 411 

at the most general axioms, which is the true way, but hitherto 
untried. 

IV. The understanding, when left to itself, takes the first of 
these ways; for the mind delights in springing up to the most 
general axioms , that it may find rest; but after a short stay there, 
it disdains experience , and these mischiefs are at length increased 
by logic, for the ostentation of disputes. 

V. The natural human reasoning we, for the sake of clearness, 
call the anticipation of nature, as being a rash and hasty thing; 
and the reason duly exercised upon objects, we call the interpre¬ 
tation of nature. 

VI. It is false to assert that human sense is the measure of 
things, since all perceptions, both of sense and mind, are with 
relation to man , and not with relation to the universe ;* but the 
human understanding is like an unequal mirror to the rays of 
things, which, mixing its own noAure with the nature of things, 
distorts and perverts them. 

We need only consider these half-dozen aphorisms to see the 
positive tendency of his speculations; and the greater the atten¬ 
tion we bestow on his writings, the more is this fact pressed on 
our notice. Ilis mind was antipathetic to all metaphysics. 
Neither the ingenuities of logicians, nor the passionate earnest¬ 
ness of theologians, in that age of logicians and theologians, 
could lure him from his path. “ He lived in an age,” says Mr. 
Macaulay, “ in which disputes on the most subtle points of di¬ 
vinity excited an intense interest throughout Europe, and no¬ 
where more than in England. He was placed in the very thick 
of the conflict. He was in power at the time of the Synod of 
Dort; and must for months have been daily deafened with talk 
about election, reprobation, and final perseverance; yet we do 
not remember a line in his works from which it can be inferred 
that he was either a Calvinist or an Arminian. While the world 

* This is Dr. Shaw’s translation. The original is, “ sunt ex analogic homi- 
nis, non ex analogic universi,” which is intelligible and expressive enough, 
but difficult to render. 



liACON. 


112 

was resounding with the noise of a disputatious theology and ? 
disputatious philosophy, the Baconian School, like Allworthy 
seated between Thwackum and Square, preserved a calm neutral¬ 
ity, half scornful, half benevolent, and, content with adding to 
the sum of practical good, left the war of words to those who 
liked it.” 

It may not at once be apparent how eminently scientific a 
spirit is shown in Bacon’s separation of Science from Theology; 
but a slight reflection will convince us that, at such an epoch, 
such a conception was wonderful. The persecution of Galileo 
by the Church, and his recantation, were fresh in every one’s 
memory; they suffice to show that Religion was still considered 
the arbiter of Philosophy and Science; nor is this notion yet ex¬ 
tinct. The objections raised against the geologists still operate 
as a powerful obstacle to the universal acceptation of the science ; 
and similar objections constantly obstruct our scientific progress 
in other departments. This tendency is frequently deplored; 
perhaps it might be checked in some degree if it were shown to 
violate a fundamental canon of all sound philosophy, a canon 
which may be thus expressed : No speculation should be con¬ 
trolled by an order of conceptions not essentially presupposed by 
it. For example, every one feels the absurdity of controlling 
Poetry by Mathematics; because Poetry in no sense presupposes 
Mathematics, and derives no assistance from them; but Physics 
can be controlled by Mathematics, because in Physics there is 
an essential dependence on Mathematics. We cannot control a 
chemical speculation by any physiological laws; but conversely 
we can, and do, control physiological speculations by chemical 
laws. The canon, thus expounded, is readily applied to the old 
disputes between Religion and Science. Theology belongs to a 
totally different order of conceptions from that of Science. Its 
aims are different, its methods are different, its proofs are differ¬ 
ent. Only in so far as Theology comes into the circle of other 
sciences, can it be legitimately controlled by them; for instance, 
when Theology rests any claims on historical evidence, then, and 


THE SPIRIT OF BACON’S METHOD. 


413 


to that extent, must it be controlled by historical criticism ; when 
it rests any claim on scientific evidence, then and to that extent, 
must it submit to scientific control; just as Poetry, if dealing at 
all with Mathematical problems, must do so correctly, or submit 
to the criticism of mathematicians. But when the Church de¬ 
clares against Galileo; when the perhaps well-meaning but cer¬ 
tainly unwise declaimers of the present day oppose Geology on 
theological grounds, the error is of the same nature as that of a 
poet who should assail Mathematics on poetical grounds. There 
can be no fair disputes between Theology and Science. Each 
pursues its own path; the one may push aside the other; they 
cannot argue, for they have no common ground. In Theology 
there may be disputes, as between Catholic and Protestant, 
Lutheran and Zuinglian, Presbyterian and Quaker, because all 
proceed from the same starting-point, all invoke the same evi¬ 
dence ; and in Science there may be disputes, as between Chem¬ 
ists, Geologists, and Physiologists, because, all employing the same 
methods, the same kind of evidence, there is common ground for 
them to fight on. But what a dissonance of words, expressive 
of no less dissonance in ideas, in the phrases “ Lutheran Botany” 
and “Presbyterian Optics,” “Catholic Chemistry” and “Evan¬ 
gelical Anatomy !” Yet it is clear that if Theology is to inter¬ 
fere with and control the speculations of Science, the various 
theological sects may also control it according to their various 
views. We therefore see in Bacon’s rigorous separation of the 
two disparate paths of inquiry a profoundly philosophical tend¬ 
ency. He took another and far greater step when he emphatic¬ 
ally proclaimed that Physics was “ the mother of all the sciences.” 
That this was greatly in advance of his age may be gathered 
from the fact of its to this day remaining a heresy; the notion of 
ethics and politics having the same methods, and being suscep¬ 
tible of the same treatment as physics, is by the majority looked 
upon as fanciful, if not absurd. 

Speaking of the causes of errors in preceding philosophers, 
Bacon says, “A second cause of very great moment is, that 


BACON. 


IIP 

tlirougli all those ages wherein men of genius and learning prin 
cipally or even moderately flourished, the smallest part of human 
industry has been spent upon natural philosophy, though this 
ought to be esteemed as the great mother of the sciences ; for all 
the rest, if torn from this root, may perhaps be polished and 
formed for use, but can receive little increase. . . . 

“But let none expect any great promotion of the sciences, 
especially in their effective part, unless natural philosophy be 
drawn out to particular sciences ; and again, unless these partic¬ 
ular sciences be brought bach again to natural philosophy. From 
this defect it is that astronomy, optics, music, many mechanical 
arts, and what seems stranger, even moral and civil philosophy 
and logic , rise but little above their foundations, and only skim 
over the varieties and surfaces of things, viz. because after these 
particular sciences are formed and divided off, they are no longer 
nourished by natural philosophy, which might give them strength 
and increase ; and therefore no wonder if the sciences thrive not, 
when separated from their roots.”* 

It was in consequence of his having so profoundly penetrated 
the very nature of science that Bacon was able “ to lay down the 
rules for the conduct of experimental inquiries, before any such 
inquiries had yet been instituted. The power and compass of a 
mind which could form such a plan beforehand, and trace not 
merely the outline, but many of the most minute ramifications oi 
sciences which did not yet exist, must be an object of admiration 
to all succeeding ages.”f 

In his separation of Science from Metaphysics and Theology, 
and in his conception of Physics as the mother of all the sciences, 
we see the eminently positive spirit of his works ; and this makes 
him so entirely a modern. He was indeed thoroughly opposed 
to antiquity, and epigrammatically exposed the fallacy of undue 
reverence. “The opinion which men entertain of antiquity is a 
very idle thing,” said he, “ and almost incongruous to the word ; 


* Xovum Organam , i. Aph. 79, 80. 


t P. ay fair. 



415 


TIIE SPIRIT OF BACON’S METHOD. 

for the old-age and length of days of the world should in reality 
be accounted antiquity, and ought to be attributed to our own 
times, not to the youth of the world which it enjoyed among the 
ancients; for that age, though with respect to us it be ancient 
and greater, yet with regard to the world it was new and less.”* 
He bore testimony to the genius of several of the ancients, 
while he declared that their genius availed them nothing, be¬ 
cause wrongly employed; adding, in his usual happy style, “ a 
cripple in the right way may beat a racer in the wrong one. 
Nay, the fleeter the racer is, who has once missed his way, the 
farther he leaves it behind.” “We have an example,” he says, 
“ in Aristotle, who corrupted natural philosophy with Logic, . . . 
being all along more solicitous how men might defend them¬ 
selves by answers, and advance something that should be positive 
in words, than to come at the inward truth of nature. ... It 
is true his books of animals, problems, and other pieces, make 
frequent use of experiments; but then he first pronounced with¬ 
out their assistance, and did not duly consult experience in form¬ 
ing his degrees and axioms ; but after he had passed judgment 
according to his own humor, he winds experience round, and 
leads her captive to his own opinions. . . . Another great reason 
of the slow progress of the sciences is this: that it is impossible 
to proceed well in a course where the end is not rightly fixed 
and defined. Now, the true and genuine end of the sciences is 
no other than to enrich human life with new inventions and new 
powers. . . . Fruits and discoveries of works are as the vouchers 
and securities for the truth of philosophies. But from the phi¬ 
losophies of the Greeks, and their descents through particular 
sciences, now for the space of so many years scarce a single ex¬ 
periment can be produced tending to accommodate or improve 


* It is a point of some interest to ascertain from whom Bacon got the 
aphorism he frequently quotes: “ Antiquity the youth of the world.” The 
idea is in Seneca, and is thus expressed by Roger Bacon: “ Quanto juniores 
tanto perspicaciores, quia juniores, posteriores successione temporum, ingre- 
diuntur labores priorum .”—Opus Majus , pars i. cap. 6, p. 9. 



m 


BACON. 


the state of man, that may be justly attributed to the speculations 
and doctrines of their philosophy. . . . Therefore, since the end 
of the sciences has not hitherto been well defined by any one, 
we need not w r onder if men have erred and wandered in the 
things subservient to the proper end. Again, if this end had 
been rightly proposed, yet men have chosen a very wrong and 
impassable way to proceed in. And it may strike any one with 
astonishment who duly considers it, that no mortal should hither¬ 
to have taken care to open and prepare a way for the human un¬ 
derstanding, from sense and a well-conducted experience; but that 
all things should be left either to the darkness of tradition, the 
giddy agitation and whirlwind of argument, or else to the uncer¬ 
tain waves of accident, or a vague and uninformed experience. 
Let any one soberly consider what the way is which men have 
accustomed themselves to, in the inquiry and discovery of any 
thing, and he will doubtless find that the manner of invention 
most commonly used is simple and unartful: or on no other 
than this, viz. when a person goes upon an inquiry, in the first 
place he searches out and peruses what has been said upon it by 
others; in the next place adds his own thoughts thereto; and 
lastly, with great struggle of the mind, solicits and invokes, as 
it were, his own spirit to deliver him oracles; which is a method 
entirely destitute of foundation, and rolls wholly upon opinions. 
Others may call in the assistance of logic; but this is wholly a 
nominal assistance, for logic does not discover the principles and 
capital axioms upon which arts are built, but only such as seem 
agreeable thereto; and when men are curious and earnest with 
it, to procure proofs, and discover principles or first axioms, it 
refers them to faith, or puts them oft' with this trite and common 
answer—that every artist must believe in his own art.” 

Dugald Stewart* well says, “ that the idea of the object of phy¬ 
sical science (which may be justly regarded as the groundwork 


* In the excellent Chapter on Induction, Philos, of Mind, vd. ii. ch. iv 
sect. 1. 




THE SPIRIT OF BACON’S METHOD. 


417 


ol Bacon’s Novum Organum ) differs essentially from what was 
entertained by the ancients, according to whom ‘ Philosophy is 
the science of causes .’ If indeed by causes they had meant 
merely the constant forerunners or antecedents of events, the de¬ 
finition would have coincided nearly with the statement which 
I have given. But it is evident that by causes they meant such 
antecedents as were necessarily connected with the effects, and 
from the knowledge of which the effects might be foreseen and 
demonstrated. And it was owing to this confusion of the proper 
objects of Physics and Metaphysics that, neglecting the observa¬ 
tion of facts exposed to the examination of their senses, they 
vainly attempted, by synthetical reasoning, to deduce, as neces¬ 
sary consequences from their supposed causes, the phenomena 
and laws of nature.” 

Dugald Stewart also quotes Aristotle’s express declaration, 
that to know the physical cause is also to know the efficient cause ; 
and observes, that from this disposition to confound efficient with 
physical causes, may be traced the greater part of the theories 
recorded in the history of philosophy. It is this which has given 
rise to the attempts, both in ancient and modern times, to ac¬ 
count for all the phenomena of moving bodies by impulse ; and 
it is this, also, which has suggested the simpler expedient of ex¬ 
plaining them by the agency of minds united with the particles 
of matter. To this last class of theories may also be referred the 
explanations of physical phenomena by such causes as sympa¬ 
thies, antipathies, nature’s horror of a vacuum, etc., and other 
phrases borrowed by analogy from the attributes of animated 
beings. 

It was Bacon’s constant endeavor, as it has been the cause of 
his enduring fame, to teach men the real object of Science, and 
the scope of their faculties, and to furnish them with a proper 
Method whereon these faculties might be successfully employed. 
He thus not only stands clearly out in history as the exponent 
of the long-agitated antagonism to all the ancient and scholastic 
thinkers, but a]«o as the exponent of the rapidly increasing ten- 












418 


BACOX. 


dency towards positive science. He is essentially modern. All 
his predecessors, even in their boldest attacks upon ancient 
philosophy, were themselves closely allied to the spirit of tha* 
which they opposed. Ramus is the child of Aristotle, though 
he raised his hand against his father. But Bacon was modern 
in culture, in object, and in method. He attacked the ancient 
philosophy without having thoroughly understood it: he attacked 
it, because he saw that a method which conducted great intelli¬ 
gences to such absurd conclusions as those then in vogue, must 
necessarily be false. 

“Whence can arise,” he asks, “such vagueness and sterility 
in all the physical systems which have hitherto existed in the 
world? It is not, certainly, from any thing in nature itself; for 
the steadiness and regularity of the laws by which it is governed , 
clearly mark them out as objects of precise and certain knowledge. 

“ Neither can it arise from any want of ability in those who 
have pursued such inquiries, many of whom have been men of 
the highest talent and genius of the ages in which they lived; 
and it can therefore arise from nothing else but the perverseness 
and insufficiency of the methods which have been pursued. Men 
have sought to make a world from their own conceptions, and to 
draw from their own minds all the materials which they em¬ 
ployed ; but if, instead of doing so, they had consulted experi¬ 
ence and observation, they would have had facts, and not opin¬ 
ions, to reason about, and might have ultimately arrived at the 
knowledge of the laws which govern the material world. 

“ As things are at present conducted, a sudden transition is 
made from sensible objects and particular facts to general propo¬ 
sitions, which are accounted principles , and round which, as round 
so many fixed polls, disputation and argument continually re¬ 
volve. From the propositions thus hastily assumed, all things 
are derived by a process compendious and precipitate, ill suited to 
discovery, but wonderfully accommodated to debate. 

“ The way that promises success is the reverse of this. It re¬ 
quires that we should generalize sloivly, going from particular 


was bacon's method new and useful? 419 

things to those that are hut one step more general; from those 
to others of still greater extent , and so on to such as are universal. 
By such means we may hope to arrive at principles, not vague 
and obscure, but luminous and well-defined, such as Nature hei- 
self will not refuse to acknowledge.” 

In this pregnant passage he has clearly enough pointed out 
the position which his philosophy was to occupy. “ Many other 
philosophers,” as Professor Macvey Napier remarks, “ both an¬ 
cient and modern, had referred to observation and experiment in 
a cursory way, as furnishing the materials cf physical knowl¬ 
edge ; but no one before him had attempted to systematize the 
true method of discovery ; or to prove that the inductive is the 
only method by which the genuine office of philosophy can be 
exercised, and its genuine ends accomplished. It has sometimes 
been stated that Galileo was, at least, in an equal degree with 
Bacon, the father of the Inductive Logic; but it would be more 
correct to say that his discoveries furnished some fortunate illus¬ 
trations of its principles. To explain these principles ^ 7 as no 
object of his; nor does he manifest any great anxiety to recom¬ 
mend their adoption with a view to the general improvement of 
science. The Aristotelian disputant, in his celebrated Dialogues, 
is made frequently to appeal to observation and experiment; but 
the interlocutor, through whom Galileo himself speaks, nowhere 
takes occasion to distinguish between the flimsy inductions of 
the Stagirite, in regard to the objects in dispute, and those which 
he himself had instituted, or to hint at the very different com¬ 
plexion which philosophy must assume, according as the one 
kind or the other is resorted to.”* 

§ IV. Was the Method New and Useful? 

Bacon’s Method, and the scientific spirit which animates his 
works, have been indicated in the foregoing pages. His philo¬ 
sophical importance is to be measured by that Method and that 

* On the Scope and Influence of the Philos. Writings of Bacon: Trans-, of 
the Royal Society of Edinburgh, 1818. 

30 






4:20 


BACON. 


spirit; not by any scientific discoveries. A mind so richly stored 
could not fail to illustrate his writings with manifold graces of 
style, and with pregnant aphorisms. Accordingly, his Method 
having been established, and been superseded, having done its 
work, nothing remains for our profit but these very graces and 
aphorisms. The great reformer may excite our admiration, his¬ 
torically ; his Method excites no admiration for its present in¬ 
trinsic value. We have a more perfect Method; the processes 
of scientific investigation are better understood; but we are never 
in communion with his vast and penetrating intellect without 
acknowledging his greatness; for his remarks are often as appli¬ 
cable now as they were when first written. Hence the frequency 
of quotations from Bacon; and these quotations, as Dr. Whewell 
observes, are more frequently made by metaphysical, ethical, and 
even theological writers, than they are by the authors of works 
on Physics. For the present generation, then, whatever the value 
of Bacon’s works, Bacon’s Method is useless. Some modern wri¬ 
ters have asserted that it was always useless; and this assertion 
has been supported by arguments so plausible, that they demand 
attention. 

The objections made to Baeon’s Method are of three kinds. 
1st. It was nothing new; 2d. It was useless as a guide to inves¬ 
tigation ; 3d. It was already latent in the scientific spirit then 
abroad, and must have been elicited by some one, sooner or 
later. 

“ It was nothing new.” This is a very frequent objection, and 
is urged by the Count Joseph de Maistre and Mr. Macaulay. 
The former has written a long chapter to prove that Bacon’s In¬ 
duction is nothing more than the Induction of Aristotle; and 
Mr. Macaulay, who adopts the same opinion, devotes several viva¬ 
cious pages to show that everybody unconsciously practices this 
inductive Method. M. de Maistre’s Examen de la Philosophic de 
Bacon is a vehement attack, written with the celebrated author’s 
jsual vivacity, but with more than his usual arrogance and ve¬ 
hemence. As there are many things in Bacon hasty, inexact, or 


was bacon’s method new and useful? 421 

partaking of the prejudices and errors of his age, his antagonist 
is at no loss to find matter for ridicule; hut when he treats of 
Bacon’s Method and Spirit as contemptible puerilities, he only ex¬ 
cites a smile in the dispassionate reader. His arguments against 
Bacon’s Method are, first, that Aristotle had analyzed it before 
him; secondly, that Induction is only one form of the Syllogism. 

It is true that Aristotle told us what Induction was; but it is 
not true that he analyzed it, as Bacon has done; nor did he ever 
pronounce it to be the Method of inquiry: on the contrary, it 
only served him as one of the means of ascertaining truth, and 
was not so important in his eyes as the Syllogism. Bacon asserts 
Induction to be the only Method; and has no words too strong 
to express his scorn of the Syllogism, “ which may catch the as¬ 
sent, but lets the things slip through.” Dugald Stewart observes 
that we might as well declare that the ancients had anticipated 
Newton because they too used the word “attraction,” as that Ar¬ 
istotle anticipated Bacon because he too speaks of “ Induction.”* 
This is, however, going too tar the other way. In our Chapter 
on the Staffirite we have indicated the relation in which the two 

O 

conceptions stand to each other. 

M. de Maistre says that Induction and Syllogism are the same. 
“ At bottom, what is Induction ? Aristotle clearly saw it: It is 
a syllogism without the middle term — sVrj Si o romrog cfvKKoyW yog 
rr,g tfpw r^g xoci dfxerfov crp oradsug. (Anal. Prior, ii. 12.) What 
does it signify whether I say, Every simple being is indestructible 
by nature ; now my soul is a simple being , therefore , etc.; or 
whether I say directly, My soul is simple , it is therefore inde¬ 
structible. In either case it is the syllogism which is virtually 
in the induction, as it is in the enthymeme.” 

Now it is quite true that every induction may be thrown into 
the form of a syllogism by supplying the major premise; and 
it is this which led Archbishop Whately to conclude that Induc¬ 
tion itself is but a peculiar case of ratiocination, and that the 
universal type of all reasoning is the syllogism. We cannot but 


* Philos, of Mind, vol. ii. ch. iv. sect. 2. 



422 


BACON. 


agree with John Mill in holding precisely the reverse opinion, 
and believing that ratiocination itself is resolvable into Induc¬ 
tion.* Be this as it may, M. de Maistre has afforded us an illus¬ 
tration of the difference between Aristotle and Bacon in the very 
passage quoted. 

If every induction can be thrown into the form of a syllogism, 
by supplying the major premise, it is in the way this major 
premise is established that we must seek the real difference be¬ 
tween the Syllogistic and Inductive Methods : and that difference 
is the difference between a priori and a posteriori. Every one 
who has read Bacon, knows that his scorn for the Syllogism is 
not scorn for it as a form of ratiocination , but as a means of in - 
vestigation. He objects to our proceeding to deduce from an 
axiom not accurately and inductively obtained, consequences 
which may very well be contained in the axiom, although hav¬ 
ing no relation to the truth of things. “The axioms in use, be¬ 
ing derived from slender experience and a few obvious particu¬ 
lars, are generally applied in a corresponding manner; no won¬ 
der they lead not to new particulars.”! Again: “ Syllogism 
consists of propositions, propositions of words, and words are 
the signs of notions; therefore, if our notions , the basis of all , 
are confused, and over-hastily taken from things , nothing that is 
built upon them can be firm; whence our only hope rests upon 
genuine Induction ,”J 

Nothing can be more explicit. Bacon very well knew the dif¬ 
ference between his Method and that of the Aristotelians; and 
he very well expressed this difference. To turn round upon him 
and say all Induction is itself but Syllogism, is mere evasion. 
He was not giving a logical analysis of the mind: he was warn* 
ing men against long-standing errors, and pointing out to them 
the path of-truth. 

Mr. Macaulay’s arguments are of a different stamp. To us 
they are only ingenious and plausible; yet so ingenious and so 


* See System of Logic , vol. i. pp. 372-3. 
t Novum Organum , Apb. 25. % Ibid., Aph. 14. 



was bacon’s mktiiod new and useful? 423 

plausible as to gain many followers. They are mostly true as 
far as they go, but do not appear to us to go to the real point. 
We shall select the main parts of his opposition : 

“ The inductive method has been practised ever since the be¬ 
ginning of the world, by every human being. It is constantly 
practised by the most ignorant clown, who by this method is led 
to the conclusion, that if he sows barley he shall not reap wheat. 
A plain man fincfs his stomach out of order. He never heard ot 
Lord Bacon’s name; but he proceeds in the strictest conformity 
with the rules laid down in the second book of the Novum Or - 
annum , and satisfies himself that mince-pies have done the mis¬ 
chief. ‘ I ate mince-pies on Monday and Wednesday, and was 
kept awake by indigestion all night.’ This is the comparentia 
ad intellectum instantiarum convenientium. ‘ I did not eat any on 
Tuesday and Friday, and I was quite well.’ This is the comparentia 
instantiarum in proximo quce natura data privantur. ‘I ate 
very sparingly of them on Sunday, and was very slightly indis¬ 
posed in the evening. But on Christmas-day I almost dined on 
them, and was so ill that I was in some danger.’ This is the 
comparentia instantiarum secundum magis ct minus. 1 It cannot 
be the brandy which I took with them ; for I have drunk brandy 
for years, without being the worse for it.’ This is the rejectio 
naturarum. We might easily proceed, but we have already suf¬ 
ficiently explained our meaning.” 

The answer to this is, that Induction being the process of all 
reasoning, of course so long as men have reasoned they have 
reasoned inductively. But there is simple and incautious Induc¬ 
tion, and there is cautious methodical Induction,—instinct and 
science; in ordinary cases, men pursue the induction per enu- 
merationem simplicem ; in scientific investigations they must pur¬ 
sue a very different method; and at the time Bacon wrote, al¬ 
most all philosophical and scientific speculations were vitiated by 
the incorrect method. 

“ Those who object to the importance of Bacon’s precepts in 
philosophy,” says Mr. Hallam, “ that mankind have practised 


424 


BACON. 


many of them immemorially, are rather confirming their utility 
than taking off much from their originality, in any fair sense ol 
the term. Every logical method is built on the common facul¬ 
ties of human nature, which have been exercised since the crea¬ 
tion, in discerning—better or worse—truth from falsehood, and 
inferring the unknown from the known. That men might have 
done this more correctly, is manifest from the quantity of error 
into which, from want of reasoning well on what came before 
them, they have habitually fallen. In experimental philosophy, 
to which the more special rules of Lord Bacon are generally re¬ 
ferred, there was a notorious want of that very process of reason¬ 
ing which he supplied.”* “ Nothing can be more certain,” as 
Professor Napier observes, “than that Bacon rests the whole 
hopes of his philosophy on the novelty of his logical precepts; 
and that he uniformly represents the ancient philosophers, par¬ 
ticularly Aristotle, as having been wholly regardless of the in 
ductive method in their physical inquiries. Bacon does not in¬ 
deed say that the ancient philosophers never employed themselves 
in observing Nature; but he maintains that there is a wide dif¬ 
ference between observation, as it was employed by them, and 
the art of observing for the purposes of philosophical discovery.”! 

Men in Bacon’s time reasoned like the facetious judge in Mr. 
Macaulay’s anecdote, “who was in the habit of jocosely pro¬ 
pounding, after dinner, a theory, that the cause of the prevalence 
of Jacobinism was the practice of bearing three names. He 
quoted, on the one side, Charles James Fox, Richard Brinsley 
Sheridan, John Horne Tooke, John Philpot Curran, Samuel 
Taylor Coleridge, Theobald Wolfe Tone. These were instantice 
convenientes. He then proceeded to cite instances absentice in 
■proximo —William Pitt, John Scott, William Wyndham, Samuel 
Horsley, Henry Dundas, Edmund Burke. He might have gone 


* Hist, of Lit. of Europe, iii. 182. 

t Dissertation on the Scope and Influence of Bacon's Writings , p. 13. See, 
also, a passage to the same effect in Herschel’s Discourse , pp. 113, 114, which 
we do not quote, because the work is in everybody’s hands. 



WAS BACONS METHOD NEW AND USEFUL? 425 

Dii to instances secundum magis et minus. The practice of giv¬ 
ing children three names has been for some time a growing prac¬ 
tice, and Jacobinism has also been growing. The practice of 
giving children three names is more common in America than 
in England. In England w r e have still a King and a House of 
Lords; but the Americans are Republicans. The rejectiones are 
obvious. Burke and Wolfe Tone were belli Irishmen; therefore 
the being an Irishman is not the cause. In this way our induc¬ 
tive philosopher arrives at what Bacon calls the vintage , and 
pronounces that having three names is the cause of Jacobinism.” 

This is a very good theory for a jocular one; but we are sur¬ 
prised to find so acute a writer as Mr. Macaulay speaking of it in 
the terms he does: “ Here is an induction corresponding with 
Bacon’s analysis, and ending in a monstrous absurdity. In 
what then does this induction differ from the induction which 
leads us to the conclusion that the presence of the sun is the 
cause of our having more light by day than by night ? The 
difference evidently is, not in the hind of instances, but in the 
number of instances ; that is to say, the difference is not in that 
part of the process for which Bacon has given precise rules, but 
in a circumstance for which no precise rule can possibly be given. 
If the learned author of the theory about Jacobinism had en¬ 
larged either of the tables a little, his system would have been 
destroyed. The names of Tom Paine and William Windham 
Grenville would have been sufficient to do the work.” 

We especially dissent from the clause printed in italics, which 
seems to us at variance with all sound Induction. It is precisely 
the kind of instances adduced in the theory, which makes the- 
theory absurd. The whole theory is a gross example of “ causa¬ 
tion inferred from casual conjunction, without any presumption; 
arising from known properties of the supposed agent: which is 
the characteristic of empiricism.” Although in this theory there 
has been a certain superficial elimination employed, yet that elim¬ 
ination is obviously too incomplete for any satisfactory result. 
Mr. Macaulay subsequently asks, What number of instances is 


BACON. 


m 

sufficient to justify belief? After how many experiments would 
Jenner have been justified in believing vaccination to be a safe¬ 
guard against the smallpox? We answer that the number of 
instances depends on the kind of instances, and on the theory 
which presides over their collection. In proportion as the facts 
adduced are complex, must the theory which would explain 
them be consistent with all other known truths, before the facts 
themselves can have any significance. 

Bacon’s originality is in no way affected by pioving that all 
men at all times, when they reasoned correctly, reasoned induc¬ 
tively. Moreover, in Bacon’s particular department, men had 
notoriously pursued a wrong Method.* They were not aware of 
the necessity, which he declared there was in all investigations, 
to proceed upon a graduated and successive Induction. Bacon 
first made them aware of this; and, as Dr. Whewell says, “ the 
truly remarkable circumstance is to find this recommendation of 
a continuous advance from observation, by limited steps, through 
successive gradations of generality, given at a time when specu¬ 
lative men in general had only just begun to perceive that they 
must begin their course from experience in some way or other. 

. . . In catching sight of this principle, and in ascribing to it 
its due importance, Bacon’s sagacity, so far as I am aware, 
wrought unassisted and unrivalled.”f 

The second question now presents itself. Was the method 
useful as a guide in investigation ? Many persons have declared 
it to be useless. Mr. Macaulay is of the same opinion. He says, 
with great truth, “By stimulating men to the discovery of new 
truth, Bacon stimulated them to employ the inductive method— 

* And this in spite of the warning so emphatically given three centuries 
before Francis Bacon, by his great namesake Eoger Bacon: “ Sine experien- 
tia nihil sufficienter sciri potest. Duo enim sunt modi cognoscendi, scilicet 
per argumentum et experimentum. Argumentum concludit et facit nos con- 
cludere qugestionem, sed non certificat neque removet dubitationem, ut 
quiescat animus in intuitu veritatis, nisi earn inveniat vi k experientiae.”— 
Opus Majus , pars vi. cap. i. 

t Philos, of Inductive Sciences, ii. 395, 396. 



was bacon’s method new and useful? 427 

the only method by which truth can be discovered. By stimu¬ 
lating men to the discovery of useful truth, he furnished them 
with a motive to perform the inductive process well and care¬ 
fully. Ilis predecessors had been anticipators of Nature. They 
had been content with first principles, at which they had ar¬ 
rived by the most scanty and slovenly induction. And why was 
this? It was, we conceive, because their philosophy proposed 
to itself no practical end, because it was merely an exercise of 
die mind. A man w T ho wants to contrive a new machine, or a 
new medicine, has a strong motive to observe patiently and ac¬ 
curately, and to try experiment after experiment; but a man 
who merely wants a theme for disputation, or declamation, has 
no such motive.” 

.Now in this passage, as it seems to us, the very merit we are 
claiming for Bacon is conceded. We are told that Bacon stimu¬ 
lated men to employ the Inductive Method—the only method by 
which new truth could be discovered. Who pointed out the futil¬ 
ity of anticipating Nature?—Bacon. Who exposed the “scanty 
and slovenly induction” of the Schoolmen ?—Bacon. His merit 
is not simply that of stimulating men to the discovery of new 
lands, but of also affording them chart and compass wherewith to 
discover the new lands. There were several eminent men, his 
predecessors and contemporaries, who all rose up against the an¬ 
cient systems, and stimulated men to the discovery of useful truth; 
but these men, although all of them constantly insisted upon ob¬ 
servation and experiment, had no glimpse, or only a very partial 
and confused glimpse, of the Inductive Method. So that when 
Mr. Macaulay says, “ It was not by furnishing philosophers with 
rules for performing the inductive process well, but by furnishing 
them with a motive for performing it well, that he conferred so 
vast a benefit on society,” we believe he is contradicted, on all 
sides, by history. The motive had been given by many—indeed, 
one may say that it w r as a tendency of the age; the rules had 
been devised bv no one but himself. These rules, it is true, were 
far from perfect; but they constitute the beginning, and form the 


±2S 


BACON. 


basis of the more perfect structure which, successors have erected 
Mr. Macaulay’s argument receives its force solely from what we 
cannot but regard as his misconception of the Baconian Induction. 
That Induction he declares to be daily performed by every man; 
but this is confounding ordinary Induction with scientific Induc¬ 
tion. It is confounding a simple inference, with a long and com¬ 
plicated process of inference. It is confounding what Bacon in¬ 
cessantly and emphatically distinguishes, viz. Induction with the 
Inductive Method; and this confusion has probably influenced 
him in the selection of his illustrations. None of the things he 
has named require a complicated process of reasoning for their 
discovery. If a man wants to make a shoe, he needs inductions, 
but is certainly in no need of the Inductive Method; if he wants 
to discover a law of Nature, the Inductive Method is indispensa¬ 
ble. Mr. Macaulay will not maintain that the ordinary man, who 
wishes to find out a law of Nature, proceeds in his inquiry by a 
graduated and successive Induction from particulars to generals, 
and from generals to those which are still more general; and this 
without “anticipation’’ of Nature—without rash and hasty leap¬ 
ing from one particular to some extreme generality. In fact, 
although Induction , as the type of reasoning, must be carried 
on by every reasoning animal, yet so far is the Inductive Method 
from being the ordinary process of ordinary men, that we know 
of scarcely any process so contrary to the natural bias of the 
mind. Bacon has more than once alluded to this bias, which 
makes us judge hastily, and on the slenderest evidence. In¬ 
deed, the Inductive Method requires a constant and watchful 
repression of our natural tendency to “ anticipate,” and endeavor, 
by a short cut, to abridge the long journey which conducts us to 
the Truth. 

But while we think Mr. Macaulay underrates the importance of 
the inductive rules, we quite agree with him that Bacon overrated 
their importance. “ Our method of discovery in science,” so runs 
one of his aphorisms, “is of such a nature that there is not much 
left to acuteness and strength of genius, but all degrees of genius 


was bacon’s method new and useful? 


420 


tnd intellect are brought nearly to the same level.’ 1 * This is con¬ 
tradicted by every two men engaging in scientific pursuits. In 
proportion to the effectiveness of the instrument, will the original 
superiority make itself more manifest. Place axes in the hands of 
two men commissioned to make a clearing in the forest, and the 
stronger man will be at a greater advantage than he was before. 
Moreover the Method, however excellent when followed, cannot 
force men to follow it: the natural bias of the mind is against it. 
Mr. Macaulay therefore is perfectly right in preferring the spirit 
of Bacon’s Method to the rules given in the second book of the 
Organum. 

There is however another reason why the spirit is preferable to 
the rules; and that reason is the incompleteness of those rules. 
The radical defect of Bacon’s method lies in its being inductive , 
and not also deductive. He was so deeply impressed with a sense 
of the insufficiencv of the Deductive Method alone, which he saw 
his contemporaries pursuing, and which he knew to be the cause 
of the failure of his predecessors, that he bestowed all his attention 
on the Inductive Method. His want of mathematical knowledge 
had also no small share in this error. Although however it may 
be justly said that he did not sufficiently exemplify the Deductive 
Method, it is not correct to say that he entirely neglected it. 
Those who assert this, forget that the second part of the Novum 
Organum was never completed. In the second part it was his 
intention to treat of Deduction, as is plain from the following pas¬ 
sage : “ The indications for the interpretation of Nature include two 
general parts. The first relates to the raising of Axioms from ex¬ 
perience ; and the second, to the deducing or deriving of new 
experiments from Axioms (de ducendis aut derivandis experi- 
mentis novis ab axiomatibus).”f We here see that he compre¬ 
hended the two-fold nature of the method; but inasmuch as he 
did not publish the second part of his Organum , we may admit 
the remark of Professor Playfair, that “in a very extensive depart- 


* Novum Organum , i. Aph. 61. 


f Ibid., ii. Aph. 10. 



BACON. 


130 

meat of physical science, it cannot be doubted that investigation 
has been carried on, not perhaps more easily, but with a less fre¬ 
quent appeal to experience, than the rules of the Novum Orgamim 
would seem to require. In all physical inquiries where mathemat¬ 
ical reasoning has been employed, after a lew principles have 
been established by experience, a vast multitude of truths, equally 
certain with the principles themselves, have been deduced from 
them by the mere application of geometry and algebra. ... The 
strict method of Bacon is therefore only necessary where the 
thing to be explained is new, and where we have no knowledge, 
or next to none, of the powers employed.”* 

His deficiency in mathematical knowledge caused him to over¬ 
look the equal importance of Deduction and Induction :—“ Bacon 
has judiciously remarked, that the axiomata media of every sci¬ 
ence principally constitute its value. The lowest generalizations, 
until explained by and resolved into the middle principles, of 
which they are the consequences, have only the imperfect accu¬ 
racy of empirical laws ; while the most general laws are too gen¬ 
eral, and include too few circumstances to give sufficient indica¬ 
tion of what happens in individual cases, where the circumstan- 

» 

ces are almost always immensely numerous. In the importance 
therefore which Bacon assigns, in every science, to the middle 
principles, it is impossible not to agree with him. But I con¬ 
ceive him to have been radically wrong in his doctrine respecting 
the mode in which these axiomata media should be arrived at; 
although there is no one proposition in his works for which he 
has been so extravagantly eulogized. He enunciates, as a uni¬ 
versal rule, that induction should proceed from the lowest to the 
middle principles, and from those to the highest, never reversing 
that order, and consequently leaving no room for the discovery 
of new principles by way of deduction at all. It is not to be 
conceived that a man of Bacon’s sagacity could have fallen into 
this mistake, if there had existed in his time, among the sciences 


* Dissertation , pp. 58. 61. 




was bacon’s method new and useful? 431 

which treat of successive phenomena, one single deductive sci¬ 
ence, such as mechanics, astronomy, optics, acoustics, etc., now 
are. • In those sciences, it is evident that the higher and middle 
principles are by no means derived from the lowest, but the re¬ 
verse. In some of them, the very highest generalizations were 
those earliest ascertained with any scientific exactness; as, for 
example (in mechanics), the laws of motion. Those general 
laws had not indeed at first the acknowledged universality which 
they acquired after having been successfully employed to explain 
many classes of phenomena to which they were not originally 
seen to be applicable; as when the laws of motion were em¬ 
ployed in conjunction with other laws to explain deductively the 
celestial phenomena. Still the fact remains, that the proposi¬ 
tions which w r ere afterwards recognized as the most general 
truths of the science, were, of all its accurate generalizations, 
those earliest arrived at. 

“ Bacon’s greatest merit therefore cannot consist, as we are so 
often told that it did, in exploding the vicious method pursued 
by the ancients, of flying to the highest generalizations for it, 
and deducing the middle principles from them, since this is 
neither a vicious nor an exploded method, but the universally 
accredited method of modern science, and that to which it owes 
its greatest triumphs. The error of ancient speculation did not 
consist in making the largest generalizations first, but in making 
them without the aid or warrant of rigorous inductive methods, 
and applying them deductively without the needful use of that 
important part of the deductive method termed verification.”* 

This passage certainly lays bare the weakness of Bacon’s 
Method ; and does so, we believe, for the first time. But we 
cannot entirely concur in the concluding paragraph. Although 
Bacon did not perhaps see the real importance of the Deductive 
Method, he did see the futility of the Deductive Method em¬ 
ployed before his time ; and he saw moreover that the cause lay 


* Mill’s System of Logic , ii. 524-6. 



432 


BACON. 


in the want of “ verification’’—in the want of w the aid or war¬ 
rant of rigorous inductive methods this we must think his 
greatest merit, as we think his imperfect conception of the De¬ 
ductive Method his greatest imperfection. 

There is also another potent reason why the merely Inductive 
Method should not have contributed to any great discoveries; 
and we must again borrow from the System of Logic the passage 
wherein this is exhibited : 

“ It has excited the surprise of philosophers that the detailed 
svstem of inductive loo-ic has been turned to so little direct use 

* O 

by subsequent inquirers,—having neither continued, except in a 
few of its generalities, to be recognized as a theory, nor having 
conducted, in practice, to any great scientific results. But this, 
though not unfrequently remarked, has scarcely received any 
plausible explanation; and some indeed have preferred to assert 
that all rules of induction are useless, rather than suppose that 
Bacon's rules are grounded upon an insufficient analysis of the 
inductive process. Such however will be seen to be the fact, as 
soon as it is considered that Bacon entirely overlooked plurality 
of causes. All his rules tacitly imply the assumption, so con¬ 
trary to all we know of Nature, that a phenomenon cannot have 
more than one cause.’’* 

In another passage, too long for extract, the same author points 
out a capital error in Bacon’s view of the inductive philosophy, 
viz. his supposition that the principle of elimination—that great 
logical instrument which he had the immense merit of first 
bringing into use—was applicable in the same sense, and in the 
same unqualified manner, to the investigation of co-existences , as 
to that of the successions of phenomena .f 

In conclusion, it may be said that Bacon’s conception of a 
scientific Method was magnificent, as far as it went; but in con¬ 
sequence of certain deficiencies, owing principally to the want of 
anv established science as a model, the Method he laid down was 


* System of Logic, ii. 873. 


t Ibid., ii. 127 et scq. 



was bacon’s method new and useful? 433 


only indirectly useful. If it did not produce great discoveries, it 
certainly did exercise an important influence on the minds of 
those who were afterwards to make great discoveries. “ The 
way to prove that Bacon’s writings were powerful agents in the 
advancement of physical knowledge,” says Professor Napier, “ is 
to prove that they produced these effects (viz. the overthrow of 
existing methods—stimulus given to experimental inquiry—and 
ingenious views and principles requisite for such inquiry); and 
the proof that such effects were actually produced by them, must 
necessarily be derived from the testimony of those who early ex¬ 
perienced, or became otherwise acquainted with, their operation.” 
And the greater part of his instructive Essay is devoted to this 
proof. The proofs are numerous and decisive, gathered not only 
from the English and French writers, but also from Italian and 
German. 

And now the last question presents itself, Was not Bacon’s 
Method latent in the scientific spirit of the age ? Yes ; just as 
much as the invention of the steam-engine was latent in the 
knowledge and tendencies of the age of Watt. What does in- 

O O 

vention mean more than the finding what others are still seek- 
ing? were it not hidden somewhere, no one could find it. Let 
no one therefore endeavor to rob a great man of his fame by de¬ 
claring that the thing found w'as lying ready to be found, and 
would have sooner or later been found by some one. Yes, by 
some one who had eyes to see what his fellow-men could not 
see : by some other great man. How was it that Bacon’s im¬ 
mediate predecessors and contemporaries did not detect this 
latent method? It was lying there as open for inspection to 
them as to him. W T hy did he alone find it ? Because he alone 
was competent to find it. 

It is very true that in his day, and previously, great discover¬ 
ies had been made; and as they only could be made upon a true 
Method, the Method was implied in them. But this is no argu¬ 
ment against Bacon’s originality. “ Principles of evidence,” says 
Mr. Mill, “and theories of method, are not to be constructed d 


434 


BACON. 


'priori. The laws of our rational faculty, like those of every 
other natural agency, are only learnt by seeing the agent at 
work. The earlier achievements of science were made without 
the conscious observance of any scientific method; and we should 
never have known by what process truth is to be ascertained if 
we had not previously ascertained truths.” And if w'e consider 
for a moment the extreme paucity of ascertained truths in science 
at the time Bacon wrote, it will enhance our admiration of his 
marvellous sagacity, to see him do so much with such poor ma¬ 
terials ; as Playfair says, “the history of human knowledge points 
out nobody of whom it can be said that, placed in the situation 
of Bacon, he would have done what Bacon did,—no man whose 
prophetic genius would enable him to delineate a system of 
science which had not yet begun to exist.” 

Bacon is a great subject, and one as attractive as great; but 
our object here has been solely to exhibit his Method, and to 
indicate its historical position. We have done nothing but point 
out the grounds upon which his fame, as the father of Experi¬ 
mental Philosophy, is built. His Method alone engaged us, be¬ 
cause by it alone he claims a place in this history. We have 
not dwelt upon his errors; neither have we dwelt upon the won¬ 
drous and manifold excellences of that mind which Mr. Macaulay 
has so felicitously compared to the tent the fairy Peribanou gave 
to Prince Ahmed :—“ Fold it, and it seemed the toy for the hand 
of lady : spread it, and the armies of powerful Sultans might re¬ 
pose beneath its shade.” 


SECOND EPOCH. 

FOUNDATION OF THE DEDUCTIVE METHOD 


CHAPTER I. 

DESCARTES. 

§ I. Life of Descartes. 

Just at the close of the sixteenth century, 1596, there was 
horn in Touraine, of Breton parents, a feeble sickly child, named 
Reno Descartes Duperron. A few days after his birth, a disease 
of the lungs carried off his mother. The sickly chil<l grew to 
be a sickly boy ; and, till the age of twenty, his life was always 
despaired of. 

That boy was one the world could ill afford to lose. Few who 
saw him creeping on the path, which his companions galloped 
along like young colts, would have supposed that the boy, whose 
short diy cough and paleness seemed to announce an early grave, 
was shortly to become one of the world’s illustrious leaders, whose 
works would continue, centuries after their appearance, to be 
studied, quoted, and criticised. His masters loved him. ne was 
a pupil of promise; and in his eighth year had gained the title of 
the Young Philosopher, from his avidity to learn, and his con¬ 
stant questioning. 

His education was confided to the Jesuits. This astonishing 
body has many evils laid to its door, but no one can refuse to it 
the praise of having been ever ready to see and apply the value 
HI 



436 


DESCARTES. 


of education. In the college of La Fleclie the young Descartes 
was instructed in mathematics, physics, logic, rhetoric, and the 
ancient languages. He was an apt pupil; learned quickly, and 
was never tired of learning. 

Was the food supplied by the Jesuits nutritious ? M. Thomas 
remarks, “ There is an education for the ordinary man; for the 
man of genius there is no education but what he gives himself; 
the second generally consists in destroying the first.” And so it 
was with Descartes, who, on leaving La Fleche, declared that 
he had derived no other benefit from his studies than that of a 
-conviction of his utter ignorance, ard a profound contempt for 
ithe systems of philosophy in vogue. The incompetence of phi¬ 
losophers to solve the problems they occupied themselves w T ith, 
—the anarchy which reigned in the scientific v r orld, where no 
two thinkers could agree upon fundamental points,—the extrav¬ 
agance of the conclusions to which some accepted premises led, 
determined him to seek no more to slake his thirst at their fountains, 

“ And that is why, as soon as my age permitted me to quit 
my preceptors,” he says, “ I entirely gave up the study of letters; 
and resolving to seek no other science than that which I could 
find in myself, or else in the great book of the world, I employed 
the remainder of my youth in travel, in seeing courts and camps, 
in frequenting people of diverse humors and conditions, in col¬ 
lecting various experiences, and above all in endeavoring to draw 
some profitable reflection from what I saw. For it seemed to 
me that I should meet with more truth in the reasonings which 
each man makes in his own affairs, aud which if wrong would 
be speedily punished by failure, than in those reasonings which 
the philosopher makes in his study, upon speculations which pro¬ 
duce no effect, and which are of no consequence to him, except 
perhaps that he will be more vain of them the more remote thev 

y 

are from common sense, because he would then have been forced to 
employ more ingenuity and subtlety to render them plausible.”* 

* Discours de la Methode , p. '6 of the convenient edition of M. Jules Si¬ 
mon. Piu-is, 1S44. 



LIFE OF DESCARTES. 


437 


For many years lie led a roving, unsettled life; now serving 
in tlie army, now making a tour; now studying mathematics in 
solitude, now conversing with scientific men. One constant pur* 
pose gave unity to those various pursuits. lie was elaborating 
his answers to the questions which perplexed him; he was pre¬ 
paring his Method. 

When only three-and-tweuty he conceived the design of a 
reformation in philosophy. He was at that time residing in his 
winter-quarters at Neuburg, on the Danube. His travels soon 
afterwards commenced, and at the age of thirty-three he retired 
into Holland, there in silence and solitude to arrange his thoughts 
into a consistent w T hole. He remained there eight years; and 
so completely did he shut himself from the world, that he con¬ 
cealed from his friends the very place of his residence. 

When the results of his meditative solitude were given to the 
world, in the shape of his celebrated Discourse on Method, and 
his Meditations (to which he invented replies), the sensation pro¬ 
duced was immense. It was evident to all men that an original 
and powerful thinker had arisen; and although of course this 
originality could not but rouse much opposition, from the very 
fact of being original, yet Descartes gained the day. His name 
became European. His controversies were European quarrels. 
Charles I., of England, invited him over, with the promise of a 
liberal appointment; and the invitation would probably have 
been accepted, had not the civil war broken out. He afterwards 
received a flattering invitation from Christina of Sweden, who 
had read some of his works with great satisfaction, and wished 
to learn from himself the principles of his philosophy. He ac¬ 
cepted it, and arrived in Stockholm in 1G49. His reception was 
most gratifying; and the Queen was so pleased with him as earn¬ 
estly to beg him to remain with her, and give his assistance 
towards the establishment of an academy of sciences. But the 
delicate frame of Descartes was ill fitted for the severity of the 
climate, and a cold, caught in one of his morning visits to Chris¬ 
tina, produced inflammation of the lungs, which put an end to 


DESCARTES. 


m 

his existence. Christina wept for him, had him interred in the 
cemetery for foreigners, and placed a long eulogium upon his 
tomb. His remains were subsequently (1666) earned from 
Sweden into France, and buried with great ceremony in St. 
Genevieve du Mont. 

Descartes was a great thinker; but having said this, we have 
almost exhausted the praise we can bestow upon him as a man. 
In disposition he was timid to servility. When promulgating 
his proofs of the existence of the Deity, he was in evident alarm 
lest the Church should see something objectionable in them. He 
had also written an astronomical treatise; but hearing of the 
fate of Galileo, he refrained from publishing, and always used 
some chicane in speaking of the world’s movement. He was 
not a brave man; nor was he an affectionate man. But he was 
even-tempered, placid, and studious not to give offence. In 
these, as in so many other points, he resembles his illustrious 
rival, Francis Bacon; but his name has descended spotless to 
posterity, while Bacon’s has descended darkened with more spots 
than time can efface. It would be hard to say how much differ¬ 
ence of -position had to do with this difference of moral purity. 
Had Bacon lived in his study, we should have only praises for 
his name. 

§ II. The Method of Descartes. 

There have been disputes as to Bacon’s claim to the title of 
Father of Experimental Science; but no one disputes the claim 
of Descartes to the title of Father of Modern Philosophy. On¬ 
tology and Psychology are still pursued upon his Method ; and 
his speculations are still proudly referred to, by most Continental 
thinkers, as perfect, or almost perfect, examples of that Method. 

In his Dedication of the Meditations to the Sorbonne, he says: 
“ I have always thought that the two questions, of the existence 
of God, t and the nature of the soul, were the chief of those 
which ought to be demonstrated rather by philosophy than by 
theology; for although it is sufficient for us, the faithful, to be* 


THE METHOD OF DESCARTES. 


439 


rteve in God, and that the soul does not perish with the body, it 
certainly does not seem possible ever to persuade the infidels to 
any religion, nor hardly to any moral virtue, unless we first prove 
to them these two things by natural reason.” Extraordinary 
language, which shows how completely Philosophy had gained 
complete independence. 

But if Philosophy is to be independent,—if reason is to walk 
alone, in what direction must she walk? Having relinquished 
the aid of the Church, there were but two courses open: the 
one, to tread once more in the path of the ancients, and to en¬ 
deavor by the ancient Methods to attain the truth; or else to 
open a new path, to invent a new Method. The former was 
barely possible. The spirit of the age was deeply imbued with 
a feeling of opposition against the ancient Methods; and Des¬ 
cartes himself had been painfully perplexed by the universal an¬ 
archy and uncertainty which prevailed. The second course was 
therefore chosen. 

Uncertainty was the disease of the epoch. Skepticism was 
wide-spread, and even the most confident dogmatism could offer 
no criterium of certitude. This want of a criterium we saw 
leading, in Greece, to Skepticism, Epicureanism, Stoicism, the 
New Academy, and finally leading the Alexandrians into the 
province of faith, to escape from the dilemma. The question of 
a criterium had long been the vital question of philosophy. 
Descartes could get no answer to it from the Doctors of his day. 
Unable to find firm ground in any of the prevalent systems ; dis¬ 
tracted by doubts; mistrusting the conclusions of his own un¬ 
derstanding ; mistrusting the evidences of his senses, he deter¬ 
mined to make a tabula rasa, and reconstruct his knowledge, 
lie resolved to examine the premises of every conclusion, and to 
believe nothing but upon the clearest evidence of reason; evidence 
so convincing that he could not by any effort refuse to assent 
to it. 

He has given us the detailed history of his doubts. He has 
told us how lie found that he could plausibly enough doubt of 


DESCARTES. 


£40 

every thing, except of his own existence. He pushed his skepti¬ 
cism to the verge of self-annihilation. There he stopped : there, 
in Self, in his Consciousness, he found at last an irresistible Fact, 
an irreversible Certainty. 

Firm o-round was discovered. He could doubt the existence 
© 

of the external world, and treat it as a phantasm; he could 
doubt the existence of God, and treat the belief as a superstition; 
but of the existence of his thinking, doubting mind, no sort of 
doubt was possible. He, the doubter, existed, if nothing else ex¬ 
isted. The existence that was revealed in his own Consciousness 
was the primary fact, the first indubitable certainty. Hence his 
famous Cogito, ergo Sum: I think, therefore I am. 

It is somewhat curious, and, as an illustration of the frivolous 
verbal disputes of philosophers, not a little instructive, that this 
celebrated Cogito , ergo Sum should have been frequently attacked 
for its logical imperfection. It has been objected, from Gassendi 
downwards, that to say, u I think, therefore I am,” is a begging 
of the question, since existence has to be proved identical with 
thought. Certainly, if Descartes had intended to prove his own 
existence by reasoning, he would have been guilty of the petitio 
principii Gassendi attributes to him; viz. that the major prem¬ 
ise, “ that which thinks exists,” is assumed, not proved. But he 
did not intend this. What was his object? He has told us that 
it was to find a starting-point from which to reason,—to find an 
irreversible certainty. And where did he find this ? In his own 
Consciousness. Doubt as I may, I cannot doubt of my own ex¬ 
istence, because my very doubt reveals to me a something which 
doubts. You may call this an assumption, if you will: I point 
out the fact as one above and beyond all logic; which logic can 
neither prove nor disprove; but which must always remain an 
irreversible certainty, and as such a fitting basis of philosophy.* 

I exist. No doubt can darken such a truth; no sophism can 
confute this clear principle. This is a certainty, if there be none 

* See liis replies to the third and fifth series of Objections, affixed to his 
Meditations. 



TIIE METHOD OF DESCARTES. 


441 


other. This is the basis of all science. It is in vain to ask for a 
proof of that which is self-evident and irresistible. I exist. The 
consciousness of my existence is to me the assurance of my ex¬ 
istence. 

Had Descartes done no more than point out this fact, he would 
have no claim to notice here; and we are surprised to find many 
writers looking upon this Cogito , ergo Sum, as constituting the 
great idea in his system. Surely it is only a statement of uni¬ 
versal experience—an epigrammatic form given to the common- 
sense view of the matter. Any clown would have told him that 
the assurance of his existence was his consciousness of it; but 
the clown would not have stated it so well. lie would have 
said: I know I exist, because I feel that I exist. 

Descartes therefore made no discovery in pointing out this fact 
as an irresistible certainty. The part it plays in his system is 
only that of a starting-point. It makes Consciousness the basis 
of all truth; there is none other possible. Interrogate Con¬ 
sciousness, and its clear replies will be Science. Here we have 
a new basis and a new philosophy introduced. It was indeed 
but another shape of the old formula, “Know thyself,” so differ¬ 
ently interpreted by Thales, Socrates, and the Alexandrians : 
but it gave that formula a precise signification, a thing it had 
before always wanted. Of little use could it be to tell man to 
know himself. How is he to know himself? By looking in¬ 
wards? We all do that. By examining the nature of his 
thoughts ? That had been done without success. By examining 
the process of his thoughts ? That too had been accomplished, 
and the lo<ric of Aristotle was the result. 

The formula needed a precise interpretation ; and that inter¬ 
pretation Descartes gave. Consciousness, said he, is the basis of 
all knowledge ; it is the only ground of absolute certainty. 
Whatever it distinctly proclaims must be true. The process, 
then, is simple: examine your Consciousness, and its clear re¬ 
plies. Hence the vital portion of his system lies in this axiom, 
nil clear ideas are true : whatever is clearly and distinctly con 


* 


442 DESCARTES. 

ceived is true. This axiom lie calls the foundation of all science, 
the rule and measure of truth.* 

The next step to be taken was to determine the rules for the 
proper detection of these ideas; and these rules he has laid 
down as follows : 

I. Never to accept any thing as true, but what is evidently so : 
to admit nothing but what so clearly and distinctly presents 
itself as true that there can be no reason to doubt it. 

II. To divide every question into as many separate questions 
as possible; that each part being more easily conceived, the 
whole may be more intelligible.—(Analysis.) 

III. To conduct the examination with order, beginning by that 
of objects the most simple, and therefore the easiest to be known, 
and ascending little by little up to knowledge of the most com¬ 
plex.—(Synthesis.) 

IV. To make such exact calculations, and such circumspec¬ 
tions, as to be confident that nothing essential has been omitted. 

Consciousness being the ground of all certainty, every thing 
of which you are clearly and distinctly conscious must be true; 
every thing which you clearly and distinctly conceive exists, if 
the idea of it involves existence. 

In the four rules, and in this view of Consciousness, we have 
only half of Descartes’ system : the psychological half. It was 
owing, we believe, to the exclusive consideration of this half that 
Dugald Stewart was led (in controverting Condorcet’s assertion 
that Descartes had done more than either Galileo or Bacon to¬ 
wards experimental philosophy) to say that Condorcet would 
have been nearer the truth if he had pointed him out as the 
Father of the Experimental Philosophy of the Mind. Perhaps 
the title is just; but Condorcet’s praise, though exaggerated, was 
not without good foundation. 


* “Hac igitur detecta veritate simul etiam invenit omnium scientiarum 
fmidamentum : ac etiam omnium aliarum veritatum mensuram ac regulam ; 
scilicet, quicquid tarn clare ac distiucte percipitur quam istud verum est.’’— 
Princip. Phil. p. 4. 



THE METHOD OF DESCARTES. 


443 


There is, in truth, another half of Descartes’ system; equally 
important, or nearly so : we mean the Mathematical or Deduc¬ 
tive Method. His eminence as a mathematician is universally 
recognized. He was the first to make the grand discovery of the 
application of Algebra to Geometry; and he made this at the 
age of twenty-three. The discovery that geometrical curves 
might be expressed by algebraical numbers, though highly im¬ 
portant in the history of mathematics, only interests us here by 
leading us to trace his philosophical development. We see him 
deeply engrossed in mathematics; we see him awakening to the 
conviction that mathematics were capable of a still further simpli¬ 
fication, and of a far more extended application. Struck as he 
was with a certitude of mathematical reasoning, he began apply¬ 
ing the principles of mathematical reasoning to the subject of 
metaphysics. His great object was, amidst the skepticism and 
anarchy of his contemporaries, to found a system which should 
be solid and convincing. He first wished to find a basis of cer¬ 
titude—a starting-point: this he found in Consciousness. He 
next wished to find a method of certitude: this he found in 
mathematics. 

“ Those long chains of reasoning,” he tells us, u all simple and 
easy, which geometers use to arrive at their most difficult demon¬ 
strations, siurofested to me that all thmo-s which came within 
human knowledge must follow each other in a similar chain; 
and that provided we abstain from admitting any thing as true 
which is not so, and that we always preserve in them the order 
necessary to deduce one from the other, there can be none so 
remote to which we cannot finally attain, nor so obscure but that 
we may discover themFrom these glimpses of the twofold 
nature of Descartes’ Method, it will be easy to see into his whole 
system. The psychological and mathematical Methods are in¬ 
separable, Consciousness being the only ground of certitude, 
mathematics the only method of certitude. 


* Discours <h la Method e, p. 12. 




DESCARTES. 


£44 

T\ r e may say therefore that the Deductive Method was now 
completely constituted. The whole operation of philosophy 
henceforth consisted in deducing consequences. The premises 
had been found ; the conclusions alone were wanting. This was 
held to be true of physics no less than of psychology. Thus, in 
his Principia , he announces his intention of giving a short ac¬ 
count of the principal phenomena of the world, not that he ma) 
use them as reasons to prove any thing; for he adds, “we desire 
to deduce effects from causes , not causes from effects , but only in 
order that out of the innumerable effects which we learn to be 
capable of resulting from the same causes, we may determine our 
minds to consider some rather than others.”* 

Such being the Method of Descartes, our readers will hear 
with surprise that some French writers have declared it to be 
the same Method as that laid down by Bacon; and this surprise 
will be heightened on learning that M. Victor Cousin is one of 
those writers. He says, “ Let us now see what our Descartes has 
done. He has established in France the same Method that Enop 
land has endeavored to attribute exclusively to Bacon;- and he 
has established it with less grandeur of imagination in style, but 
with the superior precision which must always characterize one 
who, not content with laying down rules, puts them himself in 
practice, and gives the example with the preceptf’f M. Cousin 
then quotes the four rules we quoted from Descartes; and seeing 
in them Analysis and Synthesis, which he believes constitutes 
the sole Method of Bacon, declares that the two Methods are 
one. Such a statement requires no refutation; nor indeed would 


* Principia Philos, pars iii. p. 51. The phrase, “cupimus enim rationes 
effectuum a causis, non autem e contrario causarum ab effectibus deducere,” 
may be said to express the nature of his method, as opposed to the method 
of Bacon. When M. Jules Simon said, “ The commencement of philosophy 
for Descartes is Doubt; that alone is all his entire method —cela seul est touts 
sa Mithodc ” (Introduction prefixed to his edition of Descartes, p. 3), he mis¬ 
takes, as it seems to us, the whole purpose of Descartes’ artificial skepticism: 
besides, how can a Doubt be a Method ? 
t Hist, dela Philos, le^on iii. p. 91, ed. Bruxelles, 1840. 



THE METHOD OF DESCARTES. 


445 


’t have been noticed, did it not afford an illustration of the loose 
wav in which the term Method is employed by many writers. 

Bacon was the reverse side of the medal of Descartes. Bacon’s 
deficiencies lay in that department where Descartes was greatest 
—in mathematics. Hence Bacon’s over-valuation of Induction, 
and neglect of Deduction; hence also Descartes’ over-valuation 
of Deduction, and neglect of Induction. Both cultivated Phys¬ 
ics ; but Bacon made it the basis of all the sciences; Descartes 
made it a mere illustration of his principles. The one argued 
from effects to causes—from the known to the unknown; the 
other deduced effects from causes—explaining phenomena by 
noumena—explaining that which presented itself to the senses 
by that which was intuitively known. Both separated religion 
from philosophy; but Bacon declared the problems of religion 
and ontology insoluble by reason, and therefore beyond the prov¬ 
ince of science; Descartes declared them soluble only by reason, 
and that it was the first object of philosophy to solve them. 

Besides these and other points of difference, there were also 
several points of resemblance, owing to the resemblance of their 
positions as reformers. They both overvalued their Methods, 
which they declare will enable all men to philosophize with equal 
justness. “ It is not so essential to have a fine understanding,” 
says Descartes, “ as to apply it rightly. Those who walk slowly 
make greater progress, if they always follow the right road, than 
those who run swiftly, but run on a wrong one.” This is pre¬ 
cisely the thought of Bacon: “ A cripple in the right path will 
beat a racer in the wrong one.” But both these thinkers assume 
that the racer will choose the wrong path: whereas, if their 
Methods are adopted, the finer understanding must always sur¬ 
pass the duller in the discovery of truth. 

Before quitting this subject, we must remark on the essentially 
metaphysical nature and tendency of the Method of Descartes, 
even when employed on Physics; and for this purpose we can¬ 
not do better than borrow the admirable language of Fontenello 
in his parallel between Descartes and Newton. “ Tous deux geo- 


DESCARTES. 


m 


metres excellents out vu la necessity de transporter la geometric 
dans la physique . . . Mais l’un, prenant un vol hardi, a voulu 
se placer a la source de tout, se rendre maitre des premiers prin- 
cipes par quelques idees claires et fondamentales, pour n’avoit 
plus qu’a descendre aux phenomenes de la nature comme a des 
consequences necessaires; l’autre, plus timide ou plus modeste, 
a commence sa marche par s’appuyer sur les phenomenes pour 
remonter aux principes inconnus, resolu de les admettre, quels 
que les put donner l’enchainement des consequences. L’un part 
de ce qu’il entend nettement pour trouver la cause de ce qu’il 
voit; l’autre part de ce qu’il voit pour en trouver la cause, soit 
claire, soit obscure.” 

§ III. Application of the Method. 

To prove the existence of God was the first application of JDes 
cartes’ Method; not, as some say, to prove his own existence; for 
that neither admitted of logical proof nor of disproof: it was a pri¬ 
mary fact. Interrogating his Consciousness, he found that he had 
the idea of God,—understanding, by God, a substance infinite, eter¬ 
nal, immutable, independent, omniscient, omnipotent. This, to him, 
was as certain a truth as the truth of his own existence. I exist: 
not only do I exist, but exist as a miserably imperfect, finite 
being, subject to change—greatly ignorant, and incapable of cre¬ 
ating any thing. In this, my Consciousness, I find by my fini- 
tude that I am not the All; by my imperfection, that I am not 
perfect. Yet an infinite and perfect being must exist, because 
infinity and perfection are implied, as correlatives, in my ideas ot 
imperfection and finitude. God therefore exists: his existence is 
clearly proclaimed in my Consciousness, and can no more be a 
matter of doubt, when fairly considered, than my own existence. 
The conception of an infinite being proves his real existence, 
for if there is not really such a being, I must have made the 
conception; but if I could make it, I can also unmake it, which 
evidently is not true; therefore there must be, externally to my¬ 
self, an archetype from which the conception was derived. 


APPLICATION OF THE METHOD. 


447 


‘‘The ambiguity iu this case,” it has been remarked,* “isthe 
pronoun /, by which in one place is to be understood my will, 
in another the laws of my nature. If the conception, existing as 
it does in my mind, had no original without, the conclusion would 
unquestionably follow that I had made it—that is, the laws of 
my nature must have spontaneously evolved it; but that my will 
made it, would not follow. Now, when Descartes afterwards adds 
that I cannot unmake the conception, he means that I cannot 
get rid of it by an act of my will, which is true, but is not the 
proposition required. That what some of the laws of my nature 
have produced, other laws, or the same laws in other circumstan¬ 
ces, might not subsequently efface, he would have found it dif¬ 
ficult to establish.” 

His second demonstration is the weakest of the three. Indeed, 
it is the only one not irrefragable, upon his principles. The 
third demonstration is peculiarly Cartesian, and may be thrown 
into this syllogism: 

All that we clearly and distinctly conceive as contained in 
any thing, is true of that thing. 

Now we conceive, clearly and distinctly, that the existence 
of God is contained in the idea we have of him. 

Ergo, 

God exists. 

Having demonstrated the existence of God, he had to prove 
the distinction between body and soul. This, to him, was easy. 
The fundamental attribute of Substance must be extension, be¬ 
cause we can abstract from Substance all the qualities except ex¬ 
tension. The fundamental attribute of Mind is thought, because 
by this attribute Mind is revealed to itself. Now, according to 
one of his logical axioms, two substances are really distinct when 
their ideas are complete, and in no way imply each other. The 
ideas, therefore, of extension and thought being distinct, it fol¬ 
lows that Substance and Mind are distinct in essence. 

Vie need not pursue our analysis of his metaphysical notions 


* Mill’s System of Logic , ii. 447. 




44 S 


DESCARTES. 


further. We only stop to remark on the nature of his demon¬ 
strations of God and the soul. It is, and was, usual to prove the 
existence of God from what is called the “ evidence of design.” 
Descartes neither started from design, nor from motion, which 
must have a mover: he started from the a priori ideas of per¬ 
fection and iufinity ; his proof was in the clearness of his idea 
of God. Ilis Method was that of definition and deduction. To 
define the idea of God, and hence to construct the world—not 
to contemplate the world, and thence infer the existence of God 
—was the route he pursued. Is it not eminently the procedure 
of a mathematician ? and of a mathematician who lias taken 
Consciousness as his starting-point ? 

Descartes’ speculations are beautiful exemplifications of his 
Method; and he follows that Method, even when it leads him to 
the wildest conclusions. His physical speculations are some¬ 
times admirable (he made important discoveries in optics), but 
mostly fanciful. The famous theory of vortices deserves a men¬ 
tion here, as an example of his Method. 

He begins by banishing the notion of a vacuum , not, as his 
contemporaries said, because Nature has a horror of vacuum, but 
because the essence of Substance being extension, wherever there 
is extension there is Substance; consequently empty space is a 
chimera. The substance which fills all space must be assumed 
as divided into equal angular parts. Why must this be assumed ? 
Because it is the most simple, therefore the most natural suppo¬ 
sition. This substance being set in motion, the parts are ground 
into a spherical form; and the corners thus rubbed off, like 
filings or sawdust, form a second or more subtle kind of substance. 
There is, besides, a kind of substance, coarser and less fitted for 
motion. The first kind makes luminous bodies, such as the sun 
and fixed stars; the second makes the transparent substance of 
the skies; the third kind is the material of opake bodies, such 
as earth, planets, etc. We may also assume that the motions of 
these parts take the form of revolving circular currents, or vor¬ 
tices. By this means the matter will be collected to the centre 


APPLICATION OF THE METHOD. 


449 


ot each vortex, while the second or subtle matter surrounds it, 
and by its centrifugal effort constitutes light. The planets are 
carried round the sun by the motion of this vortex, each planet 
being at such a distance from the sun as to be in a part of the 
vortex suitable to its solidity and mobility. The motions are 
prevented from being exactly circular and regular by various 
causes. For instance, a vortex may be pressed into an oval 
shape by contiguous vortices.* 

Descartes, in his physics, adopted a method which permitted 
him to set aside the qualities and the substantial forms (which 
others were seeking), and to consider only the relations of num¬ 
ber, figure, and motion. In a word, he saw in physics only 
mathematical problems. This was premature. Science, in its 
infancy, cannot be carried on by the deductive Method alone: 
such a process is reserved for its maturity. 

But this deductive Method, though premature, was puissant. 
Science is forced to employ it, and Bacon’s greatest error was in 
not sufficiently acknowledging it. Hence we may partly account 
for the curious fact that Bacon, with his cautious Method, made 
no discoveries, while Descartes, with his premature Method, made 
important discoveries. Of course the greater physical knowledge 
of Descartes, and the greater attention bestowed by him upon 
physics, had something to do with this; but his Method also as¬ 
sisted him, precisely because his discoveries were of a kind to 
which the mathematical method was strictly applicable. 

That Descartes had read Bacon there is no doubt. lie has 
himself praised Bacon’s works as leaving nothing to be desired 
on the subject of experience ; but he perceived Bacon’s deficiency, 
and declared that we are “ liable to collect many superfluous ex¬ 
periences of particulars, and not only superfluous, but false,” if 
we have not ascertained the truth before we make these expe- 

l 

* We have followed Dr. Whewell’s exposition of this theory, as given by 
him, Ilist. of Ind . Sciences , ii. p. 134. The curious reader will do well, 
however, to turn to Descartes’ own exposition in the Principia Philosophic, 
where it is illustrated by diagrams. 



450 


DESCARTES. 


riences. In other words, experiment should be the verification 
of an a priori conception; whereas Bacon teaches us to form 
our conceptions from experiment. 

We have said enough to make the Method of Descartes appre 
ciable. His position is that of founder of the Deductive Method 
on the basis of Consciousness. His scholars may be divided into 
the mathematical cultivators of Physics, and the deductive culti¬ 
vators of Philosophy. By the first he was speedily surpassed, 
and his influence on them can only be regarded as an impulsion. 
By the second he was continued: his principles were unhesita¬ 
tingly accepted, and only developed in a somewhat different 
manner. 

His philosophical Method subsists in the present day. It is 
the Method implicitly or explicitly adopted by most metaphy¬ 
sicians in their speculations upon ontological subjects. Is it a 
good Method ? The question is of the highest importance : we 
will endeavor to answer it. 

§ IV. Is the Method true ? 

In the Dedicatory Epistle prefixed to his Meditations, Des¬ 
cartes declares that his demonstrations of the existence of God, 
etc., “ equal, or even surpass, in certitude the demonstrations of 
geometry.” Upon what does he found this belief? He founds 
it upon the very nature of certitude. Consciousness is the basis 
of all certitude. Whatever I am distinctly conscious of, I must 
be certain of; all the ideas which I find in my Consciousness, as 
distinctly conceived, must be true. The belief I have in my 
existence is derived from the fact of my Consciousness: I think , 
therefore I exist. Now as soon as I conceive a truth with dis¬ 
tinctness, I am irresistibly led to believe in it; and if that belief 
is so firm that I can never have any reason to doubt that which 
I believe, I have all the certitude that can be desired. 

Further: we have no knowledge whatever of any thing external 
io us except through the medium of ideas. The consequence is, 


IS THE METHOD TRUE ? 


451 


says Descartes, that whatever we find in the ideas must necessarily 
be in the external things. 

It is only in our minds that we can seek whether things exist, 
or not. There cannot be more reality in an effect than in a 
cause. The external thing, being the cause of the idea, must 
therefore possess as much reality as the idea, and vice versa. So 
that whatever we conceive as existent, exists. 

This is the basis on which Descartes’ system is erected; if this 
basis be rotten, the superstructure must fall. If the root is 
vitiated, the tree will bear no fruit. No thinker, except Spinoza, 
has so clearly, so frankly stated his criterium. Let us then ac¬ 
cept the challenge which it offers, since an opportunity is now 
afforded of bringing together in a narrow field the defenders and 
antagonists of philosophy. 

If Descartes is wrong—if Consciousness is not the ultimate 
ground of Certitude, embracing both objective and subjective— 
it' ideas are not the internal copies of external things—then must 
Philosophy be content to relinquish all claim to certitude, and 
find refuse again in Faith. 

And Descartes is wrong. The very Consciousness to which 
he appeals, convicts him. There is this fallacy in his system : 
Consciousness is the ultimate ground of certitude, for me ; if I 
am conscious that I exist, I cannot doubt that I exist; if I am 
conscious of pain, I must be in pain. This is self-evident. But 
what ground of certitude can my Consciousness afford respecting 
things which are not me ? How does the principle of certitude 
apply ? How far does it extend ? It can only extend to things 
which relate to me. I am conscious of all that passes within. 
myself; but I am not conscious of what passes in not-self: all 
that I can possibly know of the not-self is in its effects upon me.. 

Consciousness is therefore “ cabin’d, cribb’d, confined” to me, 
and to what passes within me ; so far does the principle of cer¬ 
titude extend, and no farther. Any other ideas we may have, 
any knowledge we may have respecting not-self can only be 
founded on inferences. Thus, I burn myself in the fire: T 
32 


DESCARTES. 


±52 

am conscious of the sensation; I have certain and immediate 
knowledge of that. But I can only be certain that a chan ore has 
taken place in my consciousness; when from that change I infer 
the existence of an external object (the fire), my inference may 
be correct, but I have obviously shifted my ground; Conscious¬ 
ness—my principle of certitude—forsakes me here: I go out of 
myself to infer the existence of something which is not-self. My 
knowledge of the sensation was immediate , indubitable. My 
.knowledge of the object is mediate , uncertain. 

Directly therefore we leave the ground of Consciousness for 
that of inference, avenues of doubt are opened. Other inferences 
can be brought to bear upon any one inference to illustrate or to 
refute it. The mathematical certainty which Descartes attributed 
to these inferences becomes a great uncertainty. He says we 
only know things through the medium of ideas. We will accept 
the proposition as unquestionable. But then he also says that, 
in consequence of this, whatever we find in the ideas must neces¬ 
sarily he true of the things. The reason is, that as ideas are 
caused in us by objects, and as every effect must have as much 
reality as the cause—the effect being equal to the cause—so must 
ideas have the same reality as things. But this is a double fal¬ 
lacy. In the first place, an effect is not equal to its cause; it is 
a mere consequent of an antecedent, having no such relation as 
equality whatever. In the second place, the use of the term 
“ reality” is ambiguous. Unquestionably an effect really exists; 
but reality of existence does not imply similarity of modes of 
existence. The burn occasioned by a fire is as real as the fire; 
but it in no -way resembles the fire. 

So when Descartes says that what is true of ideas must be true 
of things, lie assumes that the mind is a passive recipient—a mir¬ 
ror, in which tilings reflect themselves. This is altogether fal¬ 
lacious; the mind is an active co-operator in all sensation—sen¬ 
sation is a consciousness of changes operated in ourselves , not a 
consciousness of the objects causing those changes. In truth, so 
tar from our being able to apprehend the nature of things ex* 


IS THE METHOD TRUJ 


453 


i ? 

ternal to us, there is an impenetrable screen forever placed before 
our eyes, and that impenetrable screen is the very Consciousness 
upon which Descartes relies. When placed in contact with ex¬ 
ternal objects, they operate upon us; their operations we know, 
themselves we cannot know; precisely because our knowledge of 
them is mediate , and the medium is our Consciousness. Into 
whatever regions we wander, we carry with us this Conscious¬ 
ness, by means of which, indeed, we know, but all we know, is 
— ourselves. 

Knowledge is composed of Ideas. Ideas are the joint product 
of mind on the one hand, and of external causes on the other; 
or rather we may say that Ideas are the products of mind excited 
by external causes. Upon what principles of inference (since we 
are here on the ground of inference) can you infer that the ideas 
excited are copies of the exciting causes—that the ideas excited 
apprehend the whole nature of the causes ? The cause of the 
fallacy is in that very strong disposition to give objectivity to a 
law of the mind; in consequence of which we often hear people 
declare that something they are asserting is “ iuvolved in the 
idea.” 

There is one mode of escape left for those who believe in the 
validity of ontological speculations: namely, to assert the exist¬ 
ence of Innate Ideas , or—as the theory is generally stated in 
modern times—of Necessary Truths independent of all experi¬ 
ence. If the idea of God, for example, be innate in us, it is no 
longer a matter of inference, but of Consciousness; and on such 
an hypothesis Descartes is correct in believing that the certainty 
of this idea equals the certainty of geometry. 

But some maintain that he did not assert the existence of lu¬ 
nate Ideas, though, from its having been a doctrine maintained 
by his followers, it is usually attributed to him. Dugald Stewart 
quotes the following passage from Descartes in reply to his ad¬ 
versaries, who accused him of holding the tenet of Innate Ideas: 
—“ When I said that the idea of God is innate in us, I never 
meant more than this, that Nature has endowed us with a facul • 


454 


DESCARTES. 


ty by which we may know God ; but I have never either said 01 
thought that such ideas had an actual existence, or even that 
they were a species distinct from the faculty of thinking. . . . 
Although the idea of God is so imprinted on our minds that 
every person has 'within himself the faculty of knowing Him, it 
does not follow that there may not have been various individuals 
who have passed through life without making this idea a distinct 
object of apprehension ; and, in truth, they who think they have 
an idea of a plurality of Gods have no idea of God whatever.” 

From this it would appear that he did not hold the doctrine 
of Innate Ideas. But we must venture to dissent from the con' 
elusion drawn by Dugald Stewart on the strength of such a pas¬ 
sage ; against that passage we will bring another equally explicit 
(we could bring fifty, if necessary), which asserts the existence 
of Innate Ideas. “By the word idea” he says, “I understand all 
that can be in our thoughts; and I distinguish three sorts of 
ideas:— adventitious , like the common idea of the sun ; framed 
by the mind, such as that which astronomical reasoning gives of 
the sun; and innate, as the idea of God, mind, body, a triangle, 
and generally all those which represent true, immutable, and eternal 
essences”* This last explanation is distinct; and it is all that 
the serious antagonists of Innate Ideas have ever combated. If 
Descartes, when pressed by objections, gave different explana¬ 
tions, we may attribute that to the want of a steady conception 
of the vital importance of Innate Ideas in his system. The fact 
remains that Innate Ideas form the necessary groundwork of the 
Cartesian doctrine. 

Although the theory of Innate Ideas may, in its Cartesian 
form, be said to be exploded, it does really continue to be upheld, 
under a new form. A conviction of the paramount necessity of 
some such groundwork for metaphysical speculation has led to 
the modern theory of Necessary Truths. This plausible theory 
has been adopted by Dr. Whewell in his Philosophy of the In* 


* Lettres de Descartes, liv. 




IS THE METHOD TRUE ? 


455 


ductive Sciences ; but bis arguments have been completely 
shattered by John Mill on the one hand, and by Sir John Her- 
schel on the other.* 

The basis of all modern ontological speculations lies in the as¬ 
sumption that we have ideas independent of experience. Experience 
can only tell us of ourselves, or of phenomena; of noumena it 
can tell us nothing. That we have no ideas independent of ex¬ 
perience has been clearly enough established in the best schools 
of psychology; but the existence of metaphysical speculation 
proves that the contrary opinion still finds numerous upholders.f 

The fundamental question then of modern Philosophy was 
this: Have we any Ideas independent of Experience? And the 
attempt to solve it will occupy the greater portion of our history. 
Before entering upon it we must exhibit the Method of Descartes, 
pushed to its ultimate conclusions in Spinoza.J 


* System of Logic, book ii. cb. v.; and Quarterly Review, June, 1841; in¬ 
deed, Dr. Whewell’s arguments had been anticipated and refuted by Locke 
long before. See Essay, book iv. eh. 6, 7. 
t See the question discussed further on: Epoch VIII. § v. 

X The best modern works on Descartes, apart from regular Histories of 
Philosophy, are M. Francisque Boullier’s Histoire et Critique de la Revolution. 
Cartesienne, Paris, 1842; M. Ch. Renouvier’s Manuel de la Philos. Moderne, 
Paris, 1841; and Feuerbach’s Geschichte der neuern Philosophic , Leipzig, 1S47. 
The best edition of Descartes’ works is that by Victor Cousin, in eleven vols., 
8vo., Paris, 1826. M. Jules Simon has also published a cheap and conveni¬ 
ent edition, in one volume, of the Discourse on Method, the Meditations, and 
the Treatise on the Passions, Paris, 1844. Both of these have been excel- 
.ently translated into English (Edinburgh, 1853). 



CHAPTER II 


SPINOZA. 

§ I. Spinoza’s Life. 

Early in the seventeenth century, on a fair evening of sum¬ 
mer, a little Jewish boy was playing with his sisters on the Burg- 
wall of Amsterdam, close to the Portuguese synagogue. His 
face was mild and ingenious; his eyes were small, but bright 
quick, and penetrative; and the dark hair floated in luxuriant 
curls over his neck and shoulders. Noticeable, perhaps, for his 
beauty and joyousness, the little boy played amongst the active 
citizens of that active town. The Dutch then occupied the 
thoughtful attention of all Europe. After having first conquered 
for themselves firm footing on this earth, by rescuing their coun¬ 
try from the sea, they had thrown off the oppressive yoke of 
Spain; and had now conquered for themselves a freedom from a 
far greater tyranny, the tyranny of thought. 

Amsterdam was noisy with the creaking of cordage, the bawl¬ 
ing of sailors, and the busy trafficking of traders. The Zuyder 
Zee was crowded with vessels laden with precious stores from all 
quarters of the globe. The canals which ramify that city, like 
a great arterial system, were blocked up with boats and barges : 
the whole scene was vivid with the greatness and the littleness 
of commerce. Heedless of all this turmoil, as unheeded in it— 
heedless of all those higher mysteries of existence, the solution 
of which was hereafter to be the endeavor of his life—untouched 
by any of those strange questions which a restless spirit cannot 
answer, but which it refuses to have answered by others—heed¬ 
less of every thing but his game, the little bov played merrily 
with his sisters. That boy was Benedict Spinoza. 


spinoza’s life. 


457 


It is a pleasant thing to think of Spinoza as a boy, playing 
at boyish games. He has for so long been the bugbear of theo* 
logians and timid thinkers; he has for so long been looked upon 
as a monster, an atheist, and (to add to the horror), a Jewish 
atheist; and looked upon, even by those who were not so aghast 
at the consequences of his system, as nothing more than a frigid 
logician, that we dwell with singular pleasure on auy more human 
aspect of his character. We hope, ere we have done, to con¬ 
vince the reader that this rigorous logician was a wise, virtuous, 
and affectionate man. 

His parents were honest merchants of Amsterdam, who had 
settled there in company with a number of their brethren, on 
escaping the persecution to which all Jews were subject in Spain. 
The young Baruch* was at first destined to commerce; but his 
passion for study, and the precocity of his intellect, made his 
parents alter their resolution in favor of a rabbinical education : 
a resolution warranted by sickliness of constitution, which had 
increased his love of study. The sickly child is mostly thought¬ 
ful : he is thrown upon himself and his own resources; he suf¬ 
fers, and asks himself the cause of his pains, asks himself 
whether the world suffers like him; whether he is one with na¬ 
ture, and subject to the same laws, or whether he is apart from 
it, and regulated by distinct laws. From these he rises to the 
awful questions—Why ? Whence ? and Whither ? 

The education of the Jews was almost exclusively religious, 
the Old Testament and the Talmud forming their principal stu¬ 
dies. Spinoza entered into them with a fanatical zeal, which, 
backed as it was by remarkable penetration and subtlety, won 
the admiration of the Chief Rabbin, Saul Levi Morteira, who be¬ 
came his guide and instructor. Great indeed were the hopes en¬ 
tertained of this youth, who at fourteen rivalled almost all the 
doctors in the exactitude and extent of his biblical knowledge. 


* Baruch was Spinoza’s Hebrew name, which he himself translated into 
Latin as Benedictus; from which some have erroneously supposed that he 
embraced Christianity, whereas he only renounced Judaism. 



45S 


SPINOZA. 


But these hopes were turned to fears, when they saw that young 
and pertinacious spirit pursue his undaunted inquiries into what¬ 
ever region they conducted him, and found him putting difficul¬ 
ties to them which thev, Rabbins and philosophers, were unable 
to solve. 

Spinoza was to be deterred neither by threats nor by sophisti¬ 
cations. He found in the Old Testament no mention of the doc¬ 
trine of immortality: there was complete silence on the point.* 
He made no secret of his opinions; and two of his schoolfel¬ 
lows, irritated at his intellectual superiority, or else anxious to 
curry favor with the Rabbins, reported his heresy with the usual 
fertility of exaggeration. Summoned to appear before the Syn¬ 
agogue, he obeyed with a gay carelessness, conscious of his inno¬ 
cence. His judges, finding him obstinate in his opinions, threat¬ 
ened him with excommunication: he answered with a sneer. 
Morteira, informed of the danger, hastened to confront his re¬ 
bellious pupil; but Spinoza remained as untouched by his rhet¬ 
oric as he was unconvinced by his arguments. Enraged at this 
failure, Morteira took a higher tone, and threatened him with 
excommunication, unless he at once retracted. His pupil was 
irritated, and replied in sarcasms. The Rabbin then impetuously 
broke up the assembly, and vowed “only to return with the 
thunderbolt in his hand.” 

In anticipation of the threatened excommunication, Spinoza 
wisely withdrew himself from the Synagogue—a step which 
profoundly mortified his enemies, as he thereby rendered futile all 
intimidations which had been employed against him, particularly 
the otherwise terrible excommunication; for what terror could 
such a sentence* inspire in one who voluntarily absented himself 
from the society which pretended to exclude him ? 

Dreading his ability, and the force of his example, the Syna¬ 
gogue made him an offer of an annual pension of a thousand 

* On this silence Warburton endeavored to establish the divinity of the 
Legation of Moses; and Bishop Sherlock has exerted considerable ingenuity 
in explaining the discrepancy which skeptics had seized hold of as an argu¬ 
ment in their favor. 



spinoza’s life. 


459 


florins, if lie would only consent to be silent, and assist from time 
to time at their ceremonies. Spinoza, indignant at such an at¬ 
tempt to palter with his conscience, refused it with scorn. One 
evening, as he was coming out of the theatre, where he had 
been relaxing his overtasked mind, he was startled by the fierce 
expression of a dark face, thrust eagerly before his. The glare 
of bloodthirsty fanaticism arrested him; a knife gleamed in the 
air, and he had barely time to parry the blow. It fell upon his 
chest, but, fortunately deadened in its force, only tore his coat. 
The assassin escaped. Spinoza walked home thoughtful.* 

The day of excommunication at length arrived; and a vast 
concourse of Jews assembled to witness the awful ceremony. It 
began by the solemn and silent lighting of a quantity of black 
wax candles, and by opening the tabernacle wherein were depos¬ 
ited the Books of the Law of Moses. Thus were the dim imagina¬ 
tions of the faithful prepared for all the horror of the scene. Mor- 
teira, the ancient friend and master, now the fiercest enemy of the 
condemned, was to order the execution of the sentence. He 
stood there, pained, but implacable; the people fixed their eager 
eyes upon him. High above, the chanter rose and chanted forth, 
in loud, lugubrious tones, the words of execration; while from 
the opposite side a'nother mingled with these curses the thrilling 
sounds of the trumpet; and now the black candles were reversed, 
and were made to melt, drop by drop, into a huge tub filled with 
blood. This spectacle—a symbol of the most terrible faith— 
made the whole assembly shudder; and when the final Anath¬ 
ema Maranatha,! were uttered, and the lights all suddenly im- 
merced in the blood, a cry of religious horror and execration 
burst from all; and in that solemn darkness, and to those solemn 
curses, they shouted Amen, Amen! 

Thus was the young truth-seeker expelled from his commu- 


* Some of the biographers contradict Bayle’s statement of the assassina¬ 
tion being attempted as Spinoza was leaving the theatre, and declare that he 
was coming from the Synagogue; but they forget that he had entirely re¬ 
nounced going there, and this was the probable motive of the assassin. 




SPINOZA. 


m 

nity. his friends and relations forbidden to bold intercourse with 
him. Like the young and energetic Shelley, who afterwards im 
itated him, he found himself an outcast in this busy world, with 
no other guides through its perplexing labyrinths than sincerity 
and self-dependence. Two or three new friends soon presented 
themselves; men wno warred against their religion as lie had 
warred against his own; and a bond of sympathy was forged 
out of a common injustice. Here again we trace a resemblance 
to Shelley, who, discountenanced by his relations, sought amongst 
a few skeptical friends to supply the affections he was thus de¬ 
prived of. Like Spinoza, he too had only sisters, with whom he 
had been brought up. No doubt, in both cases, the conscious¬ 
ness of sincerity, and the pride of martyrdom, were great sus- 
tainments in this combat with society. They are always so; and 
it is well that they are so, or the battle would never be fought; 
but they never entirely replace the affections. Shut out from 
our family, we may seek a brotherhood of apostasy; but these 
new and precarious intellectual sympathies are small compensa¬ 
tion for the loss of the emotional sympathies, with all their links 
of association, and all their memories of childhood. 

Spinoza must have felt this, and, to fill the void of his yearn¬ 
ing heart, he sought the daughter of his friend and master, Van 
den Ende, as his wife. 

This Van den Ende had some influence on Spinoza’s life. He 
was a physician in Amsterdam, who conducted a philological 
seminary with such success, that all the wealthy citizens sent him 
their sons; but it was afterwards asserted, that to every dose of 
Latin he added a grain of atheism. He undertook to instruct 
Spinoza in Latin, and to give him board and lodging, on condi¬ 
tion that he should subsequently aid him in instructing his schol¬ 
ars. This Spinoza accepted with joy; for although master of 
the Hebrew, German, Spanish, Portuguese (and of course Dutch) 
languages, he had long felt the urgent necessity of Latin. 

Van den Ende had a daughter; her personal charms were 
equivocal, but she was thoroughly versed in Latin, and was an 


Spinoza’s life. 


461 


accomplished musician. The task of teaching young Benedict 
generally fell to her: and as a consequence the pupil soon be¬ 
came in love with the tutor. We often picture this courtship as 
a sort of odd reverse of Abelard and Ileloise. Spinoza we fancy 
not inattentive to the instruction, but the more in love with it 
coming from so soft a mouth : not inattentive, yet not wholly ab¬ 
sorbed. He watches her hand as it moves along the page, and 
longs to squeeze it. While “ looking out” in the dictionary, their 
hands touch—and he is thrilled ; but the word is found, never¬ 
theless. The lesson ended, he ventures on a timid compliment, 
which she receives with a kind smile; but the smile is lost, 
for the bashful philosopher has his eyes on the ground; when 
he raises them, it is to see her trip away to household duties, or 
to another pupil: and he looks after her sighing. But, alas for 
maidenly discernment! our female Abelard was more captivated 
by the showy attractions of a certain Kerkering, a young Ham¬ 
burg merchant, who had also taken lessons in Latin and love 
from the fair teacher; and who, having backed his pretensions 
by the more potent seductions of pearl necklaces, rings, etc., 
quite cast poor Benedict into the shade, who then turned from 
love to philosophy. 

His progess in Latin had, however, been considerable; he 
read it with facility, and found it invaluable in his philosophical 
studies, especially as the works of Descartes now fell into his 
hands: these he studied with intense avidity, feeling that a new 
world was therein revealed. The laws of the ancient Jewish 
doctors expressly enjoin the necessity of learning some mechan¬ 
ical art, as well as the study of the law. It was not enough, 
they said, to be a scholar—the means of subsistence must also 
be learned. Spinoza had accordingly, while belonging to the 
Synagogue, learnt the art of polishing glasses for telescopes, mi¬ 
croscopes, etc., in which he arrived at such proficiency that Leib¬ 
nitz, writing to him, mentioned, “Among the honorable things 
which fame ha6 acquainted me with respecting you, I learn with 
no small interest that you are a clever optician.” By polishing 


SPINOZA. 


IG2 

glasses lie gained a subsistence—humble, it is true, but equal to 
his wants. To this he joined, by way of relaxation, the study of 
design, and soon became very expert. Colerus had a portfolio 
of portraits of several distinguished men, sketched by him ; and 
one among them was a portrait of himself, in the dress of Ma- 
saniello.* 

In his eight-and-twentietli year Spinoza left his natal city of 
Amsterdam, and resolving to devote his life to study, retired to 
Rhynsburg, near Leyden, where, still pursuing his trade as a 
glass-polisher, he devoted every spare hour to philosophy. The 
fruits of his solitude were the Abridgment of the Meditations of 
Descartes , with an Appendix, in which he first disclosed the 
principal points of his own system. This is a very interesting 
work. It contains the most accurate and comprehensible ac¬ 
count of Descartes ever written; and the Appendix is curious, as 
containing the germ of the Ethica . It made a profound sensa¬ 
tion ; and when, the following year, he removed to Woorburg 
a small village near the Hague, his reputation attracted to him 
a great concourse of visitors. Many enmities were excited 
amongst the disciples of Descartes, by the exposition of the weak 
points of their master’s system; and Spinoza had to suffer their 
rude attacks in consequence. But the attention of all thinking 
men was fixed upon him; and the clearness and precision of his 
work won him admiration. So many new friendships did he 
form, that he at last yielded to the numerous solicitations that 
he should come and live entirely at the Hague. It was not the 
learned alone who sought his friendship; men of rank in public 
affairs were also numbered amongst them. Of the latter we may 
mention the celebrated Jan de Witt, who loved Spinoza, and 
profited by his advice in many an emergency. The great Conde 
also, during the invasion of Holland by the French, sent to de- 


* “Your enemies have not failed to assert that by that you pretended to 
show that you would create in a little while the same uproar in Christianity 
that Masaniello created in Naples .”—Rencontre de Bayle avec Spinoza dam 
^autre Monde. 1711. 



spinoza’s life. 


403 


sire Spinoza to come and see liim. The Philosopher obeyed, but 
the Prince was prevented from keeping his appointment—to his 
own loss. This journey was very near proving fatal to Spinoza. 
The populace having learned that he had been in communication 
with the enemy, began to suspect him of being a spy. His land¬ 
lord, alarmed at these reports, warned him of them; he feared, 
he said, that the populace would attack the house. “Fear noth¬ 
ing,” replied Spinoza, calmly ; “ it is easy for me to justify my¬ 
self, and there are persons enough who know the object of my 
journey; but whatever may arrive, as soon as the people assemble 
before your door, I will go out and meet them, even though I 
should share the fate of De Witt.” The same calm courage 

which made him proclaim the truth, now made him ready to 

confront the infuriated populace. Fortunately all passed off in 
peace, and he was left to his studies. Karl Ludwig, anxious to 

secure so illustrious a thinker, offered him the vacant chair of 

Philosophy at Heidelberg, which, however, Spinoza could not 
accept, conscious that the philosophy he would teach was too 
closely allied to theology not to trench on its dogmas; and the 
Elector had expressly stipulated that he should teach nothing 
which could prejudice the established religion. He therefore 
begged to decline it, as his public duties would interfere with his 
private meditations. Yet it was both a lucrative and honorable 
post he refused; but a philosophical contempt for worldly honors 
was amongst his characteristics. 

It is invigorating to contemplate Spinoza’s life. Dependent 
on his own manual exertions for his daily bread, limited in his 
wants, and declining all pecuniary assistance so liberally offered 
by his friends, he was always at ease, cheerful, and occupied. 
There is an heroic firmness traceable in every act of his life; 
there is a perpetual sense of man’s independence, worthy all imi¬ 
tation. He refuses to accept the belief of another man—he will 
believe for himself; he sees mysteries around him, awful, inex¬ 
plicable ; but he will accept of no man’s explanation. God has 
given him a soul, and with that he will solve the problem, or 


164 


SPINOZA. 


remain without a solution. He leaves the Synagogue; he leaves 
Descartes; he thinks for himself. In a far subordinate sphere 
he will also assert his independence. Having but the most mis¬ 
erable pittance, and with the purses of his friends open to him, 
he preferred limiting his desires to accepting their bounties. He 
preferred working and gaining his own subsistence, so long as it 
was to be gained. This was no crotchet, neither was it ignoble 
calculation. The friends were sincere, their offers were sincere : 
he knew it, but thanked them, and declined. The heritage, 
which on his father’s death fell to his lot, he resigned to his sis¬ 
ters. The large property which his friend Simon de Vries had 
announced his intention of leaving him, he would not consent to 
accept, but made Simon alter his will in favor of his brother, at 
Schiedam. The pension offered him if he would dedicate his 
next work to Louis XIV., he refused, “having no intention of 
dedicating any thing to that monarch.” He was indebted to no 
one but to God; who had given him talents, and energy to make 
those talents available, not to let them and him rot in idleness, or 
in ignoble dependence, while all the world had to toil.* 

Yet it was a hard, griping poverty that he endured. On look¬ 
ing over his papers after his death, they found accounts of his 
expenditure. One day he ate nothing but a soupe au lait , with 
a little butter, which cost about three halfpence, and a pot of 
beer, which cost three farthings more. Another day he lived on 
a basin of gruel, with some butter and raisins, which cost him 
twopence halfpenny; “And,” says the pastor Colerus, “although 
often invited to dinner, he preferred the scanty meal that he 
found at home, to dining sumptuously at the expense of another.” 
This was the man who was, by his contemporaries, branded with 
the names of Atheist and Epicurean; and who has borne these 

* It was in a man’s own energy that he saw the germ of worth and great¬ 
ness, and wisely ridiculed the notion of patronage in this noteworthy pas¬ 
sage : “ Governments should never found academies, for they serve more to 
oppress than to encourage genius. The unique method of making the arts 
and sciences flourish, is to allow every individual to teach what he thinks, at 
his own risk and peril.”— Tract. Polit. c. 8, § 49. 



spinoza’s life. 


465 


names forever after through all Europe, excepting only Germany. 
While on the one hand no man was perhaps ever more filled 
with religion (so that Novalis could call him a “ God-intoxicated 
man”), on the other hand his Epicureanism, at twopence-half- 
penny sterling per diem, stands a legible charge against him. 

The publication of his Tractatus Theologico-Politicus was an 
event of some importance, both in the history of philosophy and 
of Spinoza. The state of men’s minds at that period was not 
favorable to the reception of any great philosophical system; 
and Spinoza found himself obliged to prepare the way for his 
future doctrines, by examining the nature of that ecclesiastical 
power which could excite at will such violent perturbation in 
the State, and by examining also the foundations on which that 
power reposed. This great question still agitates mankind; and 
it is as curious as instructive to observe that the late orthodox 
and estimable Dr. Arnold taught a doctrine precisely similar to 
that taught by the heretical and persecuted Spinoza.* 

Times were troubled. Holland, it is true, was reposiug on 
her laurels, won in the long and desperate struggle against 
Spain. Having freed herself from a foreign yoke, she had, one 
would fancy, little now to do but to complete her canals, extend 
her commerce, and enjoy her peace. But this land of political 
freedom—this ark of refuge for the persecuted of all nations— 
the republic whose banner was freedom, aud in whose cities Eu¬ 
ropean freethinkers published their works—was disturbed by 
theological faction. The persecuted Jews might flock from 
Spain and Portugal, the synagogue might rear itself beside the 
church; the Protestants of France and Belgium were welcome 
as brothers and citizens; but, arrived there, the fugitives might 
witness, even there, the implacable war of party. Toleration 
was afforded to political freethinking, and to the diversities of 
religion; but, within the pale of the State religion, malice and 
all uncharitableness were daily witnessed. There the Gomarists 

* Compare Arnold, Introductory Lectures on Modern History: Appendix 
to the first Lecture. 



466 


SPINOZA. 


and Arminians disputed concerning the infallibility of their doc¬ 
trines, and cloaked their political ambition under evangelical 
protestations.* 

This was the state of things on the appearance of the Trac- 
tatus. Spinoza, seeing the deplorable dissensions of the theolo¬ 
gians, endeavored to make evident the necessity of a State 
religion, which, without absolutely imposing, or interfering with, 
private creeds, should regulate all outward observances. Because, 
as it is the office of the State to watch over all that concerns 
the common welfare, so should it watch over the Church, and 
direct it according to the general wish. But two things per 
fectly distinct must not here be confounded, viz. liberty of 
observance and liberty of thought. The latter is independent of 
all civil power; but the former must be subject to it, for the 
sake of the public tranquillity. 

Although this portion of the Tractatus could not have met 
with general approbation, yet it would scarcely have raised 
violent dissensions, had Spinoza confined himself to such specu¬ 
lation ; but, anticipating the rationalism of modern Germans, he 
undertook a criticism of the Bible, and attacked the institution 
of priesthood as injurious to the general welfare. It is curious 
to notice Spinoza’s anticipation of the Hegelian Christology, 
which, in the hands of Strauss, Feuerbach, and Bruno Bauer, 
has made so much noise in the theological world :—“Itell you,” 
says Spinoza, in his letter to Oldenburg, “ that it is not necessary 
for your salvation that you should believe in Christ according to 
the flesh; but of that eternal son of God, i. e. eternal wisdom of 
God, which is manifested in all things, but mostly in the human 
mind, and most of all in Jesus Christ, a very different concep¬ 
tion must be formed.”—“Dico ad salutem non esse omnino 
uecesse, Christum, secundum camera noscere, sed de seterno illo 
filio Dei, hoc est, Dei seterna sapientia, quae sese in omnibus 
rebus, et maxime in mente humana et omnium maxime in 


* Saintes, Ilistoire de la Vie de Spinoza, p. 63. 



spinoza’s life. 


467 


Christo Jesu manifestavit, longe aliter sentiendum.”* The con¬ 
sequences were as might have been expected: the book was at 
once condemned, and forbidden to be received in almost every 
country. This, as usual, only gave a greater stimulus to curi¬ 
osity, and the sensation the work produced may be judged of 
by the quantity of “refutations” which appeared. Many were 
the artifices used to introduce it into the various countries. An 
edition was published at Leyden, under this title: Dan. Hensii 
Operum Historicorum collectio prima. Edit . II., priori editione 
multo einendatior et auctior ; accedunt quoedam hactenus inedita. 
This was reprinted at Amsterdam as Henriquez de Villacorta, 
M. Dr. a Cubiculo Philippi IV’., Caroli II., Archiatri Opera 
cliirurgica omnia, sub auspiciis potentissimi Hispaniarum Regis. 
This absurd title was adopted to pass it into Spain. Another 
edition in French, called La Clef du Sanctuaire, was published 
at Leyden in 1678, and in Amsterdam as Traite des Ceremonies 
des Juifs , and again as Ref exions curieuses d y un Esprit des - 
interesse. 

Spinoza’s devotion to study, with its concurrent abstemious¬ 
ness and want of exercise, soon undermined his constitution ; 
but he never complained. He suffered that, as he had suffered 
every thing else—in silence. Once, only, a hint escapes him. 
“ If my life be continued,” he writes to a friend respecting a 
promise to explain certain matters. No plaint—no regret— 
merely a condition put upon a promise. He was a calm, brave 
man; he could confront disease and death, as he had confronted 
poverty and persecution. Bravery .of the highest kind distin¬ 
guished him through life, and it was not likely to fail him on 
the quitting it; and yet beneath that calm, cold stoicism, there 
was a childlike gayety springing from a warm and sympathizing; 
heart. His character was made up of generous simplicity ami 
heroic forbearance. He could spare somewhat from even his 
scanty pittance to relieve the wretched. He taught the learned: 


83 


* Opera Posthuma , p. 450. 



m 


• SPINOZA. 


world the doctrines lie had elaborated with endless toil; but he 
taught children to be regular in their attendance on divine ser- 
vice. He would question his host and hostess, on their return 
from church, respecting the sermon they had heard, and the 
benefit they had derived. He had no unwise proselytism which 
would destroy convictions in minds unfitted to receive others. 
One day his hostess asked him if he believed that she would be 
saved by her religion. He answered, “ Your religion is a good 
one—you ought not to seek another, nor doubt that yours will 
procure your salvation, provided you add to your piety the 
tranquil virtues of domestic life.” Words full of wisdom, spring¬ 
ing from an affectionate and experienced mind. 

So lived the Jew, Spinoza. So he developed his own nature, 
and assisted the development in others. Given up to philosophy, 
he found in it “ the true medicine of the soul ” of which Cicero 
speaks.* His only relaxations were his pipe, receiving visitors, 
chatting to the people of his house, and watching spiders fight. 
This last amusement would make the tears roll down his cheeks 
with laughter. 

The commencement of the year 1677 found him near his end. 
The phthisis, which he had suffered from for twenty years, now 
alarmingly increased. On Sunday, the 22d February, he insisted 
on his kind host and hostess leaving him, and attending divine 
service, as he would not permit his illness to obstruct their devo¬ 
tions. They obeyed. On their return he talked with them 
about the -sermon, and ate some broth with a good appetite. 
After dinner his friends returned to church, leaving the physician 
with him. When they came home they learned, with sorrow 
and surprise, that he had expired about three o’clock, in the 
presence of the physician, who seized what money there was on 
the table, together with a silver-handled knife, and left the body 
without further care. So died, in his forty-fifth year, in the full 
vigor and maturity of his intellect, Benedict Spinoza. “ Offer 


* Cicero, Tusc. iii. 6. Compare also the fine saying of Giordano Bruno 
(p. 393). 



469 


spinoza’s doctrine. 

lip with me a lock of hair to the manes of the holy but repudi¬ 
ated Spinoza!” exclaims the pious Schleiermacher. “ The great 
spirit of the world penetrated him ; the Infinite was his beginning 
and his end; the universe his only and eternal love. He was 
filled with religion and religious feeling; and therefore it is that 
he stands alone, unapproachable; the master in his art, but 
elevated above the profane world, without adherents, and with¬ 
out even citizenship.”* 


§ II. Spinoza’s Doctrine. 

The system of Spinoza, which has excited so much odium, is 
but the logical development of the system of Descartes which has 
excited so much admiration. Curious! The demonstration of 
the existence of God was one of Descartes’ proudest laurels; the 
demonstration of the existence of God—and of no other exist¬ 
ence being possible—condemned Spinoza to almost universal 
execration. 

Dugald Stewart, generally one of the most candid of men, evi¬ 
dently shared the common prejudice with respect to Spinoza. 
He refuses therefore to admit that Spinoza, whom he dislikes, 
held opinions at all similar to those of Descartes, whom he ad¬ 
mires. “ It was in little else,” says he, “ than his physical prin¬ 
ciples that he agreed with Descartes; for no two philosophers 
ever differed more widely in their metaphysical and theological 
tenets. Fontenelle characterizes his system as Cartesianism 
pushed to extravagance.” This is far from correct. Spinoza 
differed with Descartes on a few points, and agreed with him on 
most; the differences were only those of a more rigorous logical 
development of the principles both maintained. 

It was at an important era in Spinoza’s life that the writings 
of Descartes fell in his way. He was then striving to solve for 
himself the inexplicable riddle of the universe. He had studied 
with the learned Morteira; but though wise in all the wisdom 


* Schleiermacher, Rede uber die Religion , p. 47. 



470 


SPINOZA. 


of the Jews, he was still at an immeasurable distance from the 
desired solution. Descartes captivated him by the boldness of 
his logic, and by the independent nature of his Method, whereby 
truth was sought in the inner world of man, not in the outward 
world, nor in the records of authority. He studied Descartes 
with avidity; but he soon found that there also the riddle re¬ 
mained unsolved. He found the fact of his own existence some¬ 
what superfluously established; but the far greater existence in 
which his own was included—of which the great All was but a 
varied manifestation—of this he found no demonstration. Cogito , 
ergo sum , is irresistible. Cogito , ergo Deus est , is no basis for 
philosophy. 

Spinoza therefore asked himself—What is the noumenon which 
lies beneath all phenomena ? We see everywhere transforma¬ 
tions perishable and perishing ; yet there must be something be¬ 
neath, which is imperishable, immutable; what is it? We see 
a wondrous universe peopled with wondrous beings, yet none of 
these beings exist per se , but per aliud: they are not the authors 
of their own existence; they do not rest upon their own reality, 
but on a greater reality—on that of the <ro ev xai «ro crav. What 
is this reality ? 

The question, Spinoza thought, could not be answered by the 
idea of Perfection. No: the great reality of all existence is Sub¬ 
stance. Not Substance in the gross and popular sense of “body” 
or “ matter,” bat the substa?is —that which is standing under all 
phenomena, supporting and giving them reality. What is a 
phenomenon ? An appearance, a thing perceived: a state ot 
the perceiving mind. But what originates this perception— 
what changes the mind from its prior to its present state ? Some¬ 
thing , external and extrinsic, changes it. What is this some¬ 
thing ? What it is, in itself, we can never know: because to 
know it would bring it under the forms and conditions of the 
mind, i. e. would constitute it a phenomenon :—unknown, there¬ 
fore, but not denied—this ens —this something, is; and this, 
which Kant calls noumenon , Spinoza calls Substance. 


spinoza’s doctrine. 


471 


All philosophy, as all existence, must start from one principle, 
which must be the ground of all. What is this commencement 
—this ? Perfection, replies Descartes. No, says Spinoza, 

Perfection is an attribute of something prior to it. Substance is 
the dpx?]. Descartes, in common with most philosophers, had 
assumed a duality: he had assumed a God, and a world created 
by God. Substance, to him, was by no means the primal fact of 
all existence; on the contrary, he maintained that both Exten¬ 
sion and Thought were Substances ; in other w r ords, that mind 
and matter were distinct independent Substances, different in 
essence, and united only by God. Spinoza affirmed that both 
Extension and Thought were nothing more than Attributes; and 
by a subtle synthesis he reduced the duality of Descartes to 
an all-embracing unity, and thus arrived at a conception of 
the One. 

The absolute Existence—the Substance—(call it what you 
will) is God. From Him all individual concrete existences arise. 
All that exists, exists in and by God; and can only thus be con¬ 
ceived. Here then the mystery of the world begins to unfold 
itself to the patient thinker; he recognizes God as the fountain 
of life; he sees in the universe nothing but the manifestation of 
God ; the finite rests upon the bosom of the infinite ; the incon¬ 
ceivable variety resolves itself into unity. There is but one real¬ 
ity, and that is God. 

Such was Spinoza’s solution of the problem: upon this he felt 
he could repose in peace, and upon this only. To live with God 
—to know God with perfect knowledge, was the highest point 
of human development and happiness; and to this he conse¬ 
crated his life. Taking the words of St. Paul, “ In Him we live, 
move, and have our being,” as his motto, he undertook to trace 
the relations of the world to God and to man, and those of man 
to society. 

Spinoza agreed with Descartes in these three vital positions • 
—I. The basis of all certitude is Consciousness. II. Whatever 
is clear!v perceived in Consciousness must therefore be necessari* 


m 


SPINOZA. 


ly true; and distinct ideas are true ideas, true expressions of ob¬ 
jective existences. III. Consequently metaphysical problems are 
susceptible of mathematical demonstration. 

The only novelty in Spinoza’s Method is, that it is a further 
development of the Method of Descartes. Descartes thought 
that the mathematical Method was capable of being applied to 
metaphysics, but he did not apply it; Spinoza did apply it. 
This may seem a trifling addition: in reality it was the source 
of all the differences between Spinoza and his teacher. Des¬ 
cartes’ principles will inevitably lead to Spinoza’s system, if those 
principles are rigorously carried out. But Descartes never at¬ 
tempted the rigorous deduction of those consequences, which 
Spinoza, using the mathematical method, calmly and inflexibly 
deduced. Those who rebel at the conclusions drawn, must im¬ 
pugn the premises from which they are drawn; for the system 
of Spinoza is neither more nor less than a demonstration. 

To this demonstration we are about to lead our readers, and 
only beg of them a little steady attention and a little patient 
thought, convinced that they will then have little difficulty in 
finding their way. We shall translate some portions of the 
Etliica with the utmost care, because we think it every way ad¬ 
visable that the reader should have Spinoza’s own mode of state¬ 
ment, and thereby be enabled to watch his manner of deducing 
his conclusions from his premises. The work opens with eight 

DEFINITIONS. 

I. By a thing which is its own Cause I understand a thing, 
the essence of which involves existence; or the nature of 
which can only be considered as existent.* 

II. A thing finite is that which can be limited (terminari po¬ 
test) by another thing of the same nature, e.g. body is said 


* This is an important definition, as it gets rid of the verbal perplexity 
hitherto felt relative to an “ endless chain of causes.” The doubter might 
always ask the cause of the first cause in the series; but here, by identi¬ 
fying cause and existence, Spinoza annihilates the difficulty' 



spinoza’s doctrine. 473 

to be finite because it can always be conceived as larger. 
So thought is limited by other thoughts. But body does 
not limit thought, nor thought limit body. 

III. By Substance I understand that which exists in itself, and 
is conceived per se: in other words, the conception of 
which does not require the conception of any thing else 
antecedent to it. 

IV. By Attribute I understand that which the mind perceives 
as constituting the very essence of Substance. 

V. By Modes I understand the accidents ( affectiones ) of Sub¬ 
stance ; or that wdiich is in something else, through which 
also it is conceived. 

VI. By God I understand the Being absolutely infinite, i. e. the 
Substauce consisting of infinite Attributes, each of which 
expresses an infinite and eternal essence. 

Explanation: I say absolutely infinite, but not infinite sue 
genere ; for to whatever is infinite only suo genere , we can 
deny infinite Attributes; but that which is absolutely in¬ 
finite includes in its essence every thing which implies es¬ 
sence, and involves no negation. 

VII. That thing is said to be free which exists by the sole ne¬ 
cessity of its nature, and by itself alone is determined to 
action. But that thing is necessary, or rather constrained, 
which owes its existence to another, and acts according to 
certain and determinate causes. 

VIII. By Eternity I understand Existence itself, in as far as it is 
conceived necessarily to follow from the sole definition of 
an eternal tiling. 

These are the Definitions: they need not long be dwelt on, 
although frequently referred to by him; above all, no objection 
ought to be raised against them, as unusual or untrue, for they 
are the meanings of various terms in constant use with Spinoza, 
and he has a right to use them as he pleases, provided he does 
not afterwards depart from this use, wdiich he is careful not to 
do. We now come to the seven axioms. 


m 


SPINOZA. 


AXIOMS. 

I. Every thing which is, is in itself, or in some other thing. 

II. That which cannot be conceived through another (per aliud) 
must be conceived through itself (per se). 

HI. From a given determinate cause the effect necessarily fol¬ 
lows ; and vice versa , if no determinate cause be given, no 
effect can follow. 

IV. The knowledge of an effect depends on the knowledge of 
the cause, and implies it. 

V. Things that have nothing in common with each other can¬ 
not be understood by means of each other, i. e. the concep¬ 
tion of one does not involve the conception of the other. 

VI. A true idea must agree with its object (idea vera debet cum 
suo ideato convenire.) 

VII. Whatever can be clearly conceived as non-existent, does 
not, in its essence, involve existence. 

These axioms at once command assent, if we except the 
fourth, which, because the wording is ambiguous, has been 
sometimes thought absurd; but the truth is, that the opposite 
conceptions now prevalent respecting cause and effect prevent a 
real appreciation of this axiom. Mr. Hallam goes so for as to 
say, “ It seems to be in this fourth axiom, and in the proposition 
grounded upon it, that the fundamental fallacy lurks. The rela¬ 
tion between a cause and effect is surely something perfectly dif¬ 
ferent from our perfect comprehension of it, or indeed from our 
/ 

having any knowledge of it at all; much less can the contrary 
assertion be deemed axiomatic.”* There is a want of subtlet}' 
in this criticism, as well as a want of comprehension of Spinoza’s 
doctrines ; and we wonder it never suggested itself to Mr. Hallam 
that the modern notions of cause and effect do not correspond 
with the Spinozistic notions. In the above axiom it is not 
meant that there are no effects manifested to us of which we 


* Introduction to Literature of Europe, iv. 246. 



spinoza’s doctrine. 


475 


do not also know the causes—it is not meant that a man receiv¬ 
ing a blow in the dark is not aware of that blow (effect), 
though ignorant of the immediate cause. What is meant is, 
that a complete and comprehensive knowledge of the effect is 
only to be obtained through a complete and comprehensive 
knowledge of the cause. If you would know the effect in its 
totality—in itself—you must know also the cause in its totality. 
This is obvious: for what is an effect ?—an effect is a cause re¬ 
alized : it is the natura naturans conceived as natura naturata. 
We call the antecedent, Cause, and the sequent, Effect; but 
these are merely relative designations: the sequence itself is 
antecedent to some subsequent change, and the former ante¬ 
cedent was once only a sequent to its cause ; and so on. Causa¬ 
tion is change; when the change is completed, we name the 
result effect. It is only a matter of naming. But inciting this 
change, causing it, as we say, there is some power (cause) in 
nature; to know this effect therefore—that is, not merely to 
have a relative conception of our own condition consequent on 
it, but to comprehend this power, this reality, to penetrate its 
mystery, to see it in its totality, we must know what the effect 
is, and how it is; we must know its point of departure, and its 
point of destination; in a word, we must transcend the knowledge 
of phenomena, and acquire that of noumena. In a popular sense 
we are said to know effects, but to be ignorant of causes. 
Truly, we are ignoran. of both—and equally ignorant. A 
knowledge of .sequences we have, and of nothing more. The 
vital power determining these sequences we name, but cannot 
know; we may call it attraction, heat, electricity, polarization, 
etc., but, having named, we have not explained it. 

This is what Spinoza implicitly teaches; and had Mr. Ilallam 
attended only to what the very next axiom proclaims, namely, 
that things have nothing in common with each other, cannot be 
understood by means of each other, i. e. the conception of one 
not involving the conception of the other—he would have un¬ 
derstood Spinoza’s meaning; for, if effect be different from cause, 


£76 


SPINOZA. 


then its conception does not involve the conception of cause; 

but if it be the same as cause, then does the one conception in¬ 
volve that of the other; ergo , the more complete the knowledge 

of the one, the more complete the knowledge of the other. 

The reader will bear this in mind when studying Spinoza. 

We will now proceed to the 

PROPOSITIONS. 

Prop. I. Substance is prior in nature to its accidents. 

Demonstration. Per Definitions 3 and 5. 

Prop. II. Two Substances, having different Attributes, have 
nothing in common with each other. 

Demonst. This follows from Def. 3 ; for each Substance must be 
conceived in itself and through itself; in other words, the 
conception of one does not involve the conception of the 
other. 

Prop. III. Of things which have nothing in common, one can¬ 
not be the cause of the other.* 

Demonst. If they have nothing in common, then (per Axiom o) 
they cannot be conceived by means of each other; ergo 
(per Axiom 4) one cannot be the cause of the other. 
Q. E. D. 

Prop. IV. Two or more distinct things are distinguished among 
themselves either through the diversity of their Attributes, 
or through the diversity of their Modes. 

Demonst. Every thiug which is, is in itself or in some other 
thing (per Axiom 1); that is (per Def. 3 and 5), there is 


* This fallacy has been one of the most influential corrupt ers of philosoph¬ 
ical speculation. For many years it was undisputed; and most metaphy¬ 
sicians still adhere to it. See Mill’s System of Logic, ii. 373-3S6. The 
assertion is that only like can act upon like. This was the assumption of 
Anaxagoras, and the groundwork of his system. If the assumption be cor¬ 
rect, his system is true. But although it is true that like produces (causes) 
like , it is also as true that like produces unlike: thus fire produces pain when 
applied to our bodies, explosion when applied to gunpowder, charcoal when 
applied to wood ; all these effects are unlike the cause. Spinoza’s position 
is logical; those who have since upheld the fallacy have not that excuse. 



SPINOZA/S DOCTRINE. 


477 


nothing out of ourselves ( extra intellectum) but Substance 
and its Modes. There is nothing out of ourselves whereby 
things can be distinguished amongst one another, except 
Substances, or (which is the same thing, per Def. 4*) their 
Attributes and Modes. 

Prop. V. It is impossible that there should be two or more 
Substances of the same nature, or of the same Attribute. 

Demonst. If there are many different Substances, they must be 
distinguished by the diversity of their Attributes, or of their 
Modes (per Prop. 4). If only by the diversity of their 
Attributes, it is thereby conceded that there is nevertheless 
only one Substance of the same Attributes ; but if by the 
diversity of their Modes, it follows that Substance being 
prior in nature to its Modes, it must be considered inde¬ 
pendently of them ; that is (per Def. 3 and 6), cannot be 
conceived as distinguished from another ; that is (per Prop. 
4), there cannot be many Substances, but only one Sub¬ 
stance. Q. E. D. 

Prop. VI. One Substance canuot be created by another Sub¬ 
stance. 

Demonst. There cannot be two Substauces with the same At¬ 
tributes (per Prop. 5); i. e. (per Prop. 2), having any thing 
in common with each other; and therefore (per Prop. 3) 
one cannot be the cause of the other. 

Corollary. Hence it follows that Substance cannot be created by 
any thing else. For there is nothing in existence except 
Substance and its Modes (per Axiom 1, and Def. 3 and 5); 
now this Substance, not being created by another, is self- 
caused. 

Corollary 2. This proposition is more easily to be demonstrated 
by the absurdity of its contradiction ;—for if Substance can 


* In the original, by a slip of the pen, Axiom 4 is referred to instead of 
Def. 4; and Auerbach has followed the error in his translation. "We notice 
it because the reference to Axiom 4 is meaningless, and apt to puzzle the 
student. 



478 


SPINOZA. 






be created by any thing else, the conception of it would de¬ 
pend on the conception of the cause (per Axiom 4 *), and 
hence (per Def. 3) it would not be Substance. 

Prop. YII. It pertains to the nature of Substance to exist. 
Demonst. Substance cannot be created by any thing else (per 
Coroll. Prop. 6), and is therefore the cause of itself; i. e. 
(per Def. 1) its essence necessarily involves existence; or 
it pertains to the nature of Substance to exist. Q. E. D. 
Prop. VIII. All Substance is necessarily infinite. 

Demonst. There exists but one Substance of the same Attribute; 
and it must either exist as infinite or as finite. But not as 
finite, for (per Def. 2) as finite it must be limited by another 
Substance of the same nature, and in that case there would 
be two Substances of the same Attribute, which (per Prop. 
5) is absurd. Substance therefore is infinite. Q. E. D. 

Scholium .—I do not doubt that to all who judge confusedly 
of things, and are not wont to inquire into first causes, it will be 
difficult to understand the demonstration of Prop. 7, because 
they do not sufficiently distinguish between the modifications of 
Substance, and Substance itself, and are ignorant of the manner 
in which things are produced. Hence it follows, that seeing 
natural things have a commencement, they attribute a commence¬ 
ment to Substances; for he who knows not the true causes of 
things, confounds all things, and sees no reason why trees should 
not talk like men; or why men should not be formed from 
stones as well as from seeds ; or why all forms cannot be changed 
into all other forms. So, also, those who confound the divine 
nature with the human, naturally attribute human affections to 
God, especially as they are ignorant how these affections are 
produced in the mind. But if men attended to the nature of 
Substance, they would not in the least doubt the truth of Prop. 
7 ; nay, this proposition would be an axiom to all, and would be 
numbered among common notions. For by Substance they 


* Here the potency and significance of Axiom 4 begins to unfold itself. 



spinoza’s doctrine. 


470 


would understand that which exists in itself, and is conceived 
through itself; i. e. the knowledge of which does not require the 
knowledge of any thing antecedent to it.* But by modification 
they w r ould understand that which is in another thing, the con¬ 
ception of which is formed through the conception of the thing 
in which it is, or to which it belongs: we can therefore have 
correct ideas of non-existent modifications, because, although 
out of the understanding they have no reality, yet their essence 
is so comprehended in that of another, that they can be con¬ 
ceived through this other. The truth of Substance (out of the 
understanding) lies nowhere but in itself, because it is conceived 
per se. If therefore any one says that he has a distinct and 
clear idea of Substance, and yet doubts whether such a Sub¬ 
stance exist, this is as much as to say that he has a true idea, 
and nevertheless doubts whether it be not false (as a little atten¬ 
tion sufficiently manifests); or, if any man affirms Substance to 
be created, he at the same time affirms that a true idea has be¬ 
come false; than which nothing can be more absurd. Hence 
it is necessarily confessed that the existence of Substance, as 
well as its essence, is an eternal truth. And hence we must 
conclude that there is only one Substance possessing the same 
Attribute; a position which requires here a fuller development. 
I note therefore— 

1. That the correct definition of a thing includes and expresses 
nothing but the nature of the thing defined. From which it 
follows— 

2. That no definition includes or expresses a distinct number 

of individuals, because it expresses nothing but the nature of the 

thing defined; e.g. the definition of a triangle expresses no more 

than the nature of a triangle, and not any fixed number of 

triangles. 

© 


* The reader will bear in mind the result of Descartes’ philosophy, if he 
would fully seize Spinoza’s meaning and the basis on which it reposes. 
Descartes, as we saw, could find nothing indubitable but existence. Exist¬ 
ence was the primal fact of all philosophy, self-evident and indisputable. 



480 


SPINOZA. 


3. There must necessarily be a distinct cause for the existence 
of every existing thing. 

4. This cause, by reason of which any thing exists, must be 
either contained in the nature and definition of the existing thing 
(viz. that it pertains to its nature to exist), or else must lie beyond 
it—must be something different from it. 

From these positions it follows, that if a certain number of indi¬ 
viduals exist, there must necessarily be a cause why that number, 
and not a larger or smaller number: e. g. if in the world twenty 
men exist (whom, for greater perspicuity, I suppose to exist at 
once, no more having previously existed), it will not be sufficient 
to show the reason why twenty men exist, to point to human 
nature as the cause, but it will further be necessary to show cause 
why only twenty men exist, because (per note 3) a cause must be 
given for the existence of every thing. This cause however (per 
notes 2 and 3) cannot be contained in human nature itself, 
because the true definition of man does not involve the number 
twenty. Hence (per note 4) the cause why twenty men exist, 
and why each individual exists, must lie beyond each of them; 
and therefore must we absolutely conclude that every thing, the 
nature of which admits of many individuals, must necessarily 
have an external cause. As therefore it pertains to the nature 
of Substance to exist, so must its definition include a necessary 
existence, and consequently from its sole definition we must con¬ 
clude its existence. But, as from its definition, as already shown 
in notes 2 and 3, it is not possible to conclude the existence of 
many Substances, ergo it necessarily follows that only one Sub¬ 
stance of the same nature can exist.” 

Here we may pause in our translation, before we penetrate too 
far in this geometrical exposition of Spinoza’s theology. Enough 
has already been given to exhibit the rigor and precision with 
which the consequences are deduced step by step, each propo¬ 
sition being evolved from those which preceded it; and he who 
wishes to follow the system in detail must open the Ethics for 
himself, abridgment being impossible. To complete our expo- 


4S1 


spinoza’s doctrine. 

sition of the doctrine, we shall merely state in a few sentences 
the principal positions: 

There is but one infinite Substance, and that is God. 'What¬ 
ever is, is in God; and without Him, nothing can be conceived. 
He is the universal Being of which all things are the manifesta¬ 
tions. He is the sole Substance; every thing else is a Mode; yet, 
without Substance, Mode cannot exist. God, viewed under the 
attributes of Infinite Substance, is the natura naturans ,—viewed 
as a manifestation, as the Modes under which his attributes 
appear, he is the natura naturata . He is the cause of all things, 
and that immanently, but not transiently. He has two infinite 
attributes—Extension and Thought. Extension is visible Thought, 
and Thought is invisible Extension: they are the Objective and 
Subjective of which God is the Identity. Every thing is a mode 
of God’s attribute of Extension; every thought , wish, or feeling, 
a mode of his attribute of Thought. That Extension and Thought 
are not Substances, as Descartes maintained, is obvious from this: 
that they are not conceived per se , but per aliud. Something is 
extended: what is ? Not the Extension itself, but something 
prior to it, viz. Substance. Substance is uncreated, but creates 
by the internal necessity of its nature. There may be many 
existing things, but only one existence; many forms, but only 
one Substauce. God is the “ idea immanens ”—the One and All. 

Such is a brief outline of the fundamental doctrine of Spinoza; 
and now we ask the reader, can he reconcile the fact of this 
being a most religious philosophy, with the other fact of its 
having been almost universally branded with Atheism ? Is this 
intelligible ? Yes; three causes present themselves at once. 
1. The readiness with which that term of obloquy has been ap¬ 
plied to opponents, from time immemorial—to Socrates as to 
Gottlieb Fichte. 2. The obscurity of polemical vision, and the 
rashness of party judgment. 3. The use of the ambiguous w'ord 
Substance, whereby God was confounded with the material world. 

This last point is the most important, and deserves attention. 
To say “ God is the infiuite substance,” does look, at first sight, 


482 


SPINOZA. 


like tlie atheism of the D’Holbach School; but no one could 
ever have read twenty pages of Spinoza without perceiving this 
to be a misunderstanding; for he expressly teaches that God is 
not corporeal, but that body is a Mode of Extension.* No: 
God is not the material universe, but the universe is one aspect 
of his infinite Attribute of Extension : he is the identity of the 
natura naturans and the natura noturata.\ 

It is a mere verbal resemblance, therefore, this, of Spinozism 
to Atheism; but the history of philosophy shows too many 
instances of verbal analogies and ambiguities becoming sources 
of grave error, to astonish any reader. 

Next to the inevitable misapprehensions created by Spinoza’s 
use of the word Substance, we must rank among the sources of 
his ill repute the misapprehensions created by his doctrine of 
Final Causes. Although Bacon energetically reprobated the 
pursuit of Final Causes—those “ barren virgins,” as he charac¬ 
teristically styled them—pointing out the productive error of all 
such pursuit; and although the advance and extension of science 
has gradually more and more displaced this pursuit, it is still 
followed by minds of splendid reach and attainment, as the surest 
principle of research in some departments. But although the 
error has the countenance of men whom we cannot speak of 

* Dugald Stewart somewhat naively remarks that “in no part of Spinoza’s 
works has he avowed himself an Atheist ” (he would have been very much 
astonished at the charge); “ but it will not be disputed by those who compre¬ 
hend the drift of his reasonings, that, in point of practical tendency, Atheism 
and Spinozism are one and the same.” It may be so ; yet nothing can war¬ 
rant the accusation of Atheism, merely because Spinoza’s doctrines may 
have the same practical tendency as that of Atheism. Spinoza did not deny 
the existence of God; he denied the existence of the world: he was conse¬ 
quently an Acosmist, not an Atheist. If the practical tendency of these two 
opposite systems really is the same, Spinoza could not help it. 

t “ Natura naturans et natura naturata in identitate Deus est.” It must 
be borne in mind that identity does not (as in common usage) mean same¬ 
ness , but the root from which spring two opposite stems, and in which they 
have a common life. Man, for instance, is the identity of soul and body; 
water is the identity of oxygen and hydrogen. Great mistakes are con¬ 
stantly being made, owing to overlooking this distinction of vulgar and 
philosophical terms. 



spinoza’s doctrine. 


4S3 


without respect, the fact itself that only in those departments of 
inquiry, wherein imperfect knowledge still permits the Meta¬ 
physical Method to exercise its perverting influence, are Final 
Causes ever appealed to, is significant, we think, of the nature of 
the error. While no Astronomer, no Physicist, no Chemist 
reasons teleologically, there are many Biologists who proclaim 
teleology to be a luminous guide. Cuvier declared that to it he 
owed his discoveries; Owen declares that it has often aided him. 
We cannot here pause to discuss the validity of final causes, but 
the reader will probably be glad to have Spinoza’s remarkable 
analysis, which he throws into an Appendix at the end of the 
book Be Beo: 

“ Men do all things for the sake of an end, namely the good, 
or useful, which they desire. Hence it comes that they always 
seek to know only the final causes of things which have taken 
place, and when they have heard these they are satisfied, not 
having within themselves any cause for further doubt. But if 
they are unable to learn these final causes from some one else, 
nothing remains to them but to turn in upon themselves, and to 
reflect on the ends by which they are themselves wont to be 
determined to similar actions; and thus they necessarily judge 
of the mind of another by their own. Further, as within them¬ 
selves and out of themselves they discover many means which 
are highly conducive to the pursuit of their own advantage,— 
for example, eyes to see with, teeth to masticate with, vegetables 
and animals for food, the sun to give them light, the sea to 
nourish fish, etc.,—so they come to consider all natural things 
as means for their benefit: and because they are aw r are that these 
things have been found, and not prepared by them, they have 
been led to believe that some one else has adapted these means - 
to their use. For after considering things in the light of means, 
they could not believe these things to have made themselves,, 
but arguing from their own practice of preparing means for their 
use, they must conclude that there is some ruler or rulers of 
nature endowed with human freedom, who have provided all 
34 


484 


SPINOZA. 


these things for them, and have made them all for the use 01 
men. Moreover, since they have never heard any thing of the 
mind of those rulers, they must necessarily judge of this mind 
also by their own; and hence they have argued that the Gods 
direct all things for the advantage of man, in order that they 
may subdue him to themselves, and be held in the highest honor 
by him. Hence each has devised, according to his character, a 
different mode of worshipping God, in order that God might love 
him more than others, and might direct all nature to the advan¬ 
tage of his blind cupidity and insatiable avarice. Thus this 
prejudice has converted itself into superstition, and has struck 
deep root into men’s minds; and this has been the cause why 
men in general have eagerly striven to explain the final causes of 
all things. But while they have sought to show that Nature 
does nothing in vain (i. e. which is not fit for the use of men), 
they seem to me to have shown nothing else than that Nature 
and the Gods are as foolish as men. And observe, I pray you, 
to what a point this opinion has brought them. Together with 
the many useful things in Nature, they necessarily found not a 
few injurious things, namely, tempests, earthquakes, diseases, etc.; 
these they supposed happened because the Gods were angry on 
account of offences committed against them by men, or because 
of faults incurred in their worship; and although experience every 
day protests, and shows by infinite examples that benefits and 
injuries happen indifferently to pious and ungodly persons, they 
do not therefore renounce their inveterate prejudice. For it was 
easier to them to class these phenomena among other things, the 
cause of which was unknown to them, and thus retain their 
present and innate condition of ignorance, than to destroy all the 
fabric of their belief, and excogitate a new one.” 

We cannot pursue the argument further, because in the sub¬ 
sequent positions Spinoza refers to propositions proved in the 
Ethics ; what has been given will however suffice to show how 
clearly and emphatically he described the anthropomorphic tend¬ 
ency of judging Infinite by Finite wisdom. With it we conclude 


Spinoza’s doctrine. 


4S5 


the exposition of Spinoza's theology —one of the most extraordi¬ 
nary efforts of speculative faculty which history has revealed to 
us. We have witnessed the mathematical rigor with which it 
is developed; we have followed him step by step, dragged on¬ 
wards by his irresistible logic; and yet the final impression left 
on our minds is, that the system has a logical but not a vital truth. 
We shrink back from the consequences whither it so irresistibly 
leads us; we gaze over the abyss to the edge of which we have 
been dragged, and seeing naught but chaos and despair, we re¬ 
fuse to build our temple there. We retrace our steps with hur¬ 
ried earnestness, to see if no false route has been taken; we 
examine every one of his positions, to see if there be not some 
secret error, parent of all other errors. Arrived at the starting- 
point, we are forced to confess that we see no error—that each 
conclusion is but the development of antecedent positions; and 
yet, in spite of this, the mind refuses to accept the conclusions. 

This, then, is the state of the inquirer: he sees a vast chain of 
reasoning carried on with the strictest rigor. He has not been 
dazzled by rhetoric nor confused by illustrations. There has 
been no artful appeal to his prejudices or passions; he has been 
treated as a reasoning being, and has no more been able to doubt 
the positions, after once assenting to the definitions and axioms, 
than he is able to doubt the positions of Euclid. And yet we 
again say that the conclusions are repugned, refused; they are 
not the truth the inquirer has been seeking; they are no expres¬ 
sions of the thousand-fold life, the enigma of which he has been 
endeavoring to solve. 

Unable to see where this discrepancy lies, he turns with impa¬ 
tience to the works of others, and seeks in criticisms and refuta¬ 
tions an outlet from his difficulty. But—and it is a curious 
point in the history of philosophy—he finds that this bold and 
extraordinary thinker has never been refuted by any one meeting 
him on his own ground. Men have taken up separate proposi¬ 
tions, and having wrenched them from their connection with the 
whole system, have easily shown them to be quite at variance 


486 


SPINOZA. 


with—the systems of the rcfuters. This is easy work.* On the 
other hand, the inquirer finds that the great metaphysicians of 
Germany adopt Spinoza’s fundamental positions, differing with 
him only on points of detail or of language. In their works the 
consequences do not look so appalling, because they are set forth 
in lofty terms and ambiguous eloquence; but the difference is 
only verbal. Is there, then, no alternative? Must I accept 
Spinoza’s system, repugnant as it is ? Such is the inquirer’s per¬ 
plexity. 

To release him from this perplexity will perhaps be possible, 
although only possible, we believe, by arguments which cut away 
the root of all metaphysical knowledge whatever. If Spinoza is 
in error, the error must be initial , for we have just admitted that 
it does not lie in any illogical deduction. And initial the error 
is. The method brings it into distinctness. The application of 
Geometry to Metaphysics is the process most repulsive to meta¬ 
physicians, because it best serves to elucidate the nullity of their 
attempts. Geometry is purely deductive; from a few definitions 
and axioms the whole series of consequences is evolved. Meta¬ 
physics also is purely deductive; from a few definitions and 
axioms it constructs a universe. M. Damiron, in his very able 
Memoire, denies that the geometrical method can be applied to 
Metaphysics, because our intelligence cannot form notions so clear 
and -necessary respecting substance, cause, time, good and evil, as 
respecting points, lines, and surfaces; and whenever such clear 
notions have been attempted it has only been by sacrificing some¬ 
thing of the reality, by the consideration of one aspect to the ex¬ 
clusion of the other.f This is perfectly true if applied to rneta- 


* This is the way Bayle answers Spinoza; yet his answer has been pro¬ 
nounced by Dugald Stewart “ one of the most elaborate and acute refuta¬ 
tions which has yet appeared.” Mr. Stewart’s dislike of the consequences 
he believed inseparable from Spinozism has here, we think, biased his judg¬ 
ment. Bayle’s attempt at a refutation is now pretty generally considered to 
be pitiable. Jacobi declares Spinozism to be unanswerable by those who 
simply reason on the problem : faith alone can solve it otherwise, 
t Memoire sur Spinoza, 19, 20. 



spinoza’s doctrine. 


487 


physicians in general; but is certainly not true as applied to 
Spinoza, whose notions of substance, cause, etc. are not less clear 
than his notions of lines and surfaces,—a point we shall insist on 
presently. Meanwhile let us ask, why can we not form notions 
of cause, substance, and the rest, equalling in clearness our no¬ 
tions of lines and surfaces ? The answer to this question dooms 
metaphysics to eternal uncertainty : It is because Geometry never 
quits the sphere of its first assumption , that its axioms retain 
their necessary clearness, and its consequences their necessary 
truth. It begins with lines and surfaces, with lines and surfaces 
it ends; it is a purely subjective and deductive science. Its 
truths, when objectively applied, include no other elements than 
those originally given; when from ideal lines and the relations 
of those lines we pass to real lines and relations, we are still 
strictly within the sphere of lines and their relations; and the 
mightiest geometry can tell us nothing whatever of any other 
property of substance; it is powerless before any relations except 
those of surfaces. If Metaphysics could thus remain within the 
sphere of its original assumption, it also might rival geometry in 
precision; but Metaphysics unhappily starts from the subjective 
sphere, and immediately passes oft to the objective, pretending 
to include in its circle far more than is given in the original sub¬ 
jective datum, pretending indeed to disclose the whole nature of 
substance, cause, time, and space, and not merely certain relations 
among our ideas of these. AYhen, for example, Spinoza passes 
from his ideal distinction of cause and effect to real applications, 
as when he proves that God must act according to the laws of 
His own nature, yet without constraint, nothing determining Him 
save His own perfection, it is evident that by this Spihoza be¬ 
lieves the purely subjective definition he has framed expresses 
the whole truth of objective reality; he pretends to know the 
nature of God, and to know it through the notions he has framed 
of cause and effect. The error here is as great, though not so 
potent, as if a mathematician were to deduce the chemical pro¬ 
perties of a salt from the properties of right angles. To select 


483 


SPINOZA. 


another example, the fifth proposition, on which so much of 
Spinoza’s system depends: “It is impossible that there should 
be two or more Substances of the same nature, or of the same 
Attribute.” This is subjectively true; as true as a proposition 
in Euclid; that is to say, it is perfectly coherent with all that 
Spinoza teaches of Substance and Attribute; but if we pass from 
his subjective circle out into the great world of reality—if we 
disregard his definition , and look only at actual substances before 
us—say two minerals—we then fail to detect any proof of his 
subjective definition necessarily or even probably according with 
objective fact, since we perceive the definition to be framed from 
his ideas, and not founded on objective reality. 

The mathematician deduces conclusions from purely subjective 
distinctions, and these conclusions are found to correspond with 
objective fact, to nearly the whole extent of what was originally 
assumed; namely the relations of surfaces, and no further. The 
metaphysician deduces conclusions equally subjective, and it may 
be that such conclusions will apply to objective fact (as when it 
is said “nothing can be and not be at the same moment”); but 
the moment he transcends the circle of subjective distinction, as 
when he speaks of Cause, Time, Space, and Substance, his ideas 
are necessarily indistinct, because he cannot know these things: 
he can only frame logical conclusions respecting them, and these 
logical conclusions at every step need verification. 

This, of course, the metaphysician will deny. He believes in 
the validity of reason. He maintains the perfect competence of 
human intellect to know and discourse on Cause, Time, Space, 
and Substance; but he has not the same clear argument Spinoza 
had, on which to ground this belief. And here we are face to 
face >with the radical assumption which constitutes the initial 
error and logical perfection of Spinoza’s system. He holds and 
expressly teaches that the subjective idea is the actual image or 
complete expression of the objective fact. “ Hoc est, id quod in 
iutellectu objective continetur debet necessario in natura dari.” 
The order and connection of ideas is precisely the order and 


489 


spinoza's doctrine. 

connection of tilings. In the Scholium to Prop. VIII. we have 
seen him maintaining that the correct definition of a thing ex¬ 
presses the nature of a thing, and nothing but its nature : which 
is true in one sense; for unless it express the nature of the 
thing, the definition must be incorrect: but false in another and 
more important sense ; for every definition we can frame only 
expresses our conceptions of the nature of the thing: and thus 
we may define the nature of the inhabitants of the moon, and 
adhere to our definitions with the utmost logical rigor, yet all the 
while be utterly removed from any real knowledge of those in¬ 
habitants. The position is logically deducible from Spinoza’s 
conception of the relation between Thought and Extension as the 
two Attributes of Substance; but it is a position which is emphat¬ 
ically contradicted by all sound psychology. Nevertheless, with¬ 
out it Metaphysics has no basis. Unless clear ideas are to be 
accepted as the truths of things, and unless every idea , which is 
distinctly conceived by the mind, has its ideate , or object ,—met¬ 
aphysicians are without plausible pretence. 

Having thus signalized the fundamental position of Spinoza’s 
doctrine, it is there, if anywhere, that we shall be able to show 
his fundamental error. On the truth or falsehood of this one 
assumption, must Spinozism stand or fall; and we have formerly 
endeavored to show that the assumption is false. Those who 
agree in the reasonings we adduced may escape Spinozism, but 
they escape it by denying the possibility of all Philosophy. 

This consideration, that the mind is not a passive mirror re¬ 
flecting the nature of things, but the partial creator of its own 
forms—that in perception there is nothing but certain changes 
in the percipient—this consideration, we say, is the destruction 
of the very basis of metaphysics, for it expressly teaches that the 
subjective idea is not the correlate of the objective fact: and 
only upon the belief that our ideas are the perfect and adequate 
images of external things can any metaphysical speculation rest. 
Misled by the nature of geometry, which draws its truths from; 
the mind as the spider draws th* web from its bosom, Descartes- 


±90 


SPINOZA. 


assumed that metaphysical truths could be attained in the same 
way. This was a confusion of reasoning, yet Spinoza, Leibnitz, 
and their successors, followed him unhesitatingly. Spinoza, how¬ 
ever, had read Bacon’s denouncement of this a 'priori Method, 
though evidently unprepared to see the truth of the protest. It 
is curious to read his criticism of Bacon: he looks on it as that 
writer’s great error to have mistaken the knowledge of the first 
cause and origin of things. “ On the nature of mind,” he says, 
“ Bacon speaks very confusedly; and while he proves nothing, 
judges much. For in the first place he supposes that the human 
intellect, besides the deceptions of the senses, is subject to the 
deceptions of its own nature, and that it conceives every thing 
according to the analogies of its own nature, and not according 
to the analogies of the universe; so that it is like an unequal 
mirror to the rays of things, which mixes the conditions of its 
own nature with those of external things.”* 

We look upon Spinoza’s aberration as remarkable, however, 
because he had also seen that in some sense the subjective was 
not the absolute expression of the objective; as is proved by his 
celebrated argument for the destruction of final causes, wherein 
he showed that order was a thing of the imagination, as were 
also right and wrong, useful and hurtful—these being merely 
such in relation to us. Still more striking is his anticipation of 
Kant in this passage: “Ex quibus clare videre est, mensuram, 
tempus, et numerum, nihil esse praeter cogitandi, seu potius ima- 
ginandi modos;” which should have led him to suspect that 
the same law of mental forms was also applicable to all other 
subjects. 

We have pointed out the initial error, let us now refer to the 
logical perfection of Spinoza’s system. M. Damiron argues 
against the application of the geometric method, on the ground 

* “ Nam primo supponit quod intellects hutnanus, praeter fallaciam sen- 
Buum, suit sola naturA fallitur, omniaque fingit exanalogiA suae naturae, etnon 
ex analogiA uuiversi; adeo ut sit instar speculi inaequalis ad radias rerum, 
qui suam naturam naturae rerum immiscet.”— Epist. ii., Opera , p. 398. 



SPINOZA'S DOCTRINE. 


491 


of the imperfect conceptions men form of metaphysical objects; 
but this, as already hinted, cannot be said of Spinoza’s concep¬ 
tions ; they are as perfect and as clear as his conceptions of ge¬ 
ometry; whether they are as accurate and comprehensive as 
they are clear, is another question. Spinoza would maintain 
them to be so; and he would be justified on his principles; jus¬ 
tified, indeed, on all logical principles of metaphysics. Did we 
not see that the perfection of Mathematics was owing to its never 
transcending the sphere of its first assumption, never including 
other elements than those included in its definitions and axioms ? 
Precisely this may also be said of Spinozism: its original as¬ 
sumption is, that every clear idea expresses the actual nature of 
the object; and hence whatever conclusions are logically evolved 
from clear ideas, will be found objectively represented in the ex¬ 
ternal world. Whether the mathematician works a problem in 
his mind with ideal surfaces, or actually juxtaposes substances 
and points out their relations of surface, the truths deduced are 
equally valid; in the same way, whenever a Spinozist works out 
a problem with ideal elements, he is doing no more—on his as¬ 
sumption—than if he had the objective elements before him, and 
could .visibly disclose their relations. Hence the full justification 
of Spinoza’s employment of the geometrical method. And his 
employment of it, while exciting the admiration of all posterity 
for the gigantic power of thought disclosed, has had the further 
advantage of bringing within the narrowest possible field, the 
whole question of the possibility of Metaphysical certitude. 

We must not, however, longer linger with this great and good 
man, and his works. A brave and simple man, earnestly medi¬ 
tating on the deepest subjects that can occupy the human race, 
he produced a system which will ever remain as one of the most 
astounding efforts of abstract speculation—a system that has 
been decried, for nearly two centuries, as the most iniquitous and 
blasphemous of human invention; and which has now, within 
the last sixty years, become the acknowledged parent of a whole 
nation’s philosophy, ranking among its admirers some of the 


m 


SPINOZA. 


most pious and illustrious intellects of the age. The ribald 
atheist turns out, on nearer acquaintance, to be a “God-intox¬ 
icated man.” The blasphemous Jew becomes a pious, virtuous, 
and creative thinker. The dissolute heretic becomes a childlike, 
simple, self-denying, and heroic philosopher. "We look into his 
works with calm earnestness, and read there another curious page 
of human history: the majestic struggle with the mysteries of ex¬ 
istence has failed, as it always must fail; but the struggle demands 
our warmest approbation, and the man our ardent sympathy. 
Spinoza stands out from the dim past like a tall beacon, whose 
shadow is thrown athwart the sea, and whose light will serve to 
warn the wanderers from the shoals and rocks on which hun¬ 
dreds of their brethren have perished.* 


* Spinoza’s works have been ably edited by Prof. Paulus, and better, re¬ 
cently by Bruder, in three volumes, 12mo. The edition we use is the quar¬ 
to, which appeared shortly after his death : B. D. S. Opera Posthuma, 1677- 
A very close and literal German translation in five small volumes, by Berthold 
Auerbach, was published in 1841. M. Emile Saisset published one more 
paraphrastic in French. We are aware of scarcely any thing in English, 
critical or explanatory, except the account given in Mr. Hallam’s Introduction 
to the Literature of Europe , and the articles Spinoza and Spinozism in the 
Penny Cyclopaedia , and Spinoza's Life and Works in the Westminster lie- 
view , May, 1843 (the three last by the present writer). 

Since the first edition of this History, there have appeared two remarkable 
articles by Mr. Froude,—one on Spinoza’s Life, in the Oxford and Cambridge 
Review, Oct., 1847, and one on his doctrine, Westminster Review , July, 1854. 
An analysis of the Tractatus appeared in the British Quarterly a few years 
ago; and a translation of the Tractatus Politicus by William Maccall, 1855. 

Besides historians of philosophy the following writers may be consulted; 
Sigwart, Der Spinozismus historisch und philosophisch erlautert; Herder, 
Gott , einige Gespr'dche iiber Spinoza's System • Damiron, Memoire sur Spinoza 
et sa Doctrine (in the Mcmoires de l'Academic). 



CHAPTER III. 


FIRST CRISIS IN MODERN PHILOSOPHY. 

The doctrine of Spinoza was of great importance, if only be¬ 
cause it brought about the first crisis in modern Philosophy. 
Ilis doctrine was so clearly stated, and so rigorously deduced 
from admitted premises, that he brought Philosophy into this 
dilemma: 

Either my premises are correct, and we must admit that 
every clear and distinct idea is absolutely true ; true, not only 
subjectively, but objectively ;—If so, my system is true ; 

Or my premises are false; the voice of Consciousness is not 
the voice of truth; and if so, then is my system false, but all 
Philosophy is impossible : since the only ground of Certitude— 
our Consciousness—is pronounced unstable, our only means of 
knowing the truth is pronounced fallacious. 

Spinozism or Skepticism ? choose between them, for you have 
no other choice. 

Mankind refused however to make a choice. If the princi¬ 
ples which Descartes had established could have no other result 
than Spinozism, it was worth while inquiring whether those 
principles themselves might not be modified. 

The ground of discussion was shifted: psychology took the 
place of ontology. It was Descartes’ theory of knowledge 
which led to Spinozism; that theory therefore must be exam¬ 
ined : that theory henceforth becomes the great subject of dis¬ 
cussion. Before deciding upon the merits of any system which 
embraced the great questions of Creation, the Deity, Immor¬ 
tality, etc., men saw that it was necessary to decide upon the 
competence of the human mind to solve such problems. 


404 FIRST CRISIS IN MODERN PHILOSOPHY. 

All knowledge must be obtained either through experience, or 
independent of experience. Knowledge dependent on experience 
must necessarily be merely knowledge of 'phenomena. All are 
agreed that experience can only be experience of ourselves as 
modified by objects. All are agreed that to know things per se 
—noumena—we must know them through some other channel 
than experience. 

Have we, or have we not, that other channel ? This is the 
problem. Before we can dogmatize upon ontological subjects, 
we must settle this question: 

Can we transcend the sphere of our Consciousness and know 
things per se ? 

And this question further resolves itself into— Have we ideas 
independent of experience ? 

To answer this question was the great object of succeeding 
philosophers. The fact that modern philosophy, until Fichte, 
was almost exclusively occupied with Psychology has been con¬ 
stantly noticed; but the reason why Psychology assumed this 
importance, the reason why it took the place of all the higher 
subjects of speculation, has not, we believe, been distinctly 
stated. Men have contented themselves with the fact that 
Psychology occupied little of the attention of antiquity, still 
less of the attention of the Middle Ages; and only in modern 
times has it been the real ground on which the contests of the 
schools have been carried on. Psychology was the result of a 
tendency similar to that which in science produced the Inductive 
Method. In both cases a necessity had arisen for a new course 
of investigation; it had become evident that men had begun at 
the wrong end, and that before a proper answer could be given 
to any of the questions agitated, it was necessary first to settle 
the limits and conditions of inquiry, the limits and conditions of 
the irfquiring faculties. Thus Consciousness became the basis 
of Philosophy ; to make that basis broad and firm, to ascertain 
its nature and capacity, became the first object of speculation. 


THIRD EPOCH. 


PHILOSOPHY REDUCED TO A QUESTION OF PSYCHOLOGY 


CHAPTER I. 

HOBBES. 

Perhaps no writer except Spinoza has ever been so uniformly 
depreciated as Hobbes. From his first appearance until the 
present day he has been a by-word of contempt with the 
majority of writers; and even by those who have been liberal 
enough to acknowledge merit in an adversary, he has been 
treated as a dangerous and shallow thinker. The first person 
who saw his importance as a political thinker, and had the 
courage to proclaim it, was, we believe, James Mill. But as 
long as political and social theories continue to be judged of 
by their supposed consequences, so long will Hobbes be denied a 
fair hearing. He has roused the odium theologicum. It will be 
long ere that will be appeased. 

Faults he had, unquestionably; short-comings, incomplete 
views; and—as all error is dangerous in proportion to its plausi¬ 
bility—we will say that he was guilty of dangerous errors. 
Let the faults be noted, but not overstrained; the short-comings 
and incomplete views, enlarged and corrected ; the errors calmly 
examined and refuted. We shall be gainers by it; but by in¬ 
considerate contempt, by vilifying, no good result can be ob¬ 
tained. Impartial minds will always rank Hobbes amongst the 
greatest writers England has produced. He is profound, and he 



496 


HOBBES. 


is clear; weighty, strong, and sparkling. His style, as mere 
style, is in its way as fine as any thing in English: it has the 
clearness as w r ell as the solidity and brilliancy of crystal. Nor 
is the matter unworthy of the form. It is original, in the sense 
of having been passed through the alembic of his own brain, 
even when formerly the property of others. Although little ot 
it would now appear novel, it was novel when he produced it. 
Haughty, dogmatic, overbearing in manner, he loved Truth, and 
never hesitated to proclaim her. “Harm I can do none,” he 
says, in the opening of the Leviathan , “ though I err no less 
than they (*. e. previous writers), for I shall leave men but as 
they are, in doubt and dispute; but intending not to take 
any principle upon trust , but only to put men in mind of what 
they know already , or may know by their experience, I hope to 
err less ; and when I do, it must proceed from too hasty conclud¬ 
ing, which I will endeavor as much as I can to avoid.”* 

In this passage w T e see Locke anticipated. It proclaims that 
Psychology is a science of observation ; that if we would under¬ 
stand the conditions and operations of our minds, we must 
patiently look inwards and see what passes there. All the rea¬ 
soning and subtle disputation in the world will not advance us 
one step, unless we first get a firm basis on fact. “ Man,” he 
says elsewhere, with his usual causticity, “ has the exclusive 
privilege of forming general theorems. But this privilege is 
alloyed by another, that is, by the privilege of absurdity, to 
which no living creature is subject but man only. And of men 
those are of all most subject to it, that profess Philosophy .” And 
the cause of this large endowment of the privilege to Philoso¬ 
phers w r e may read in another passage, wdiere he attributes the 
difficulty men have in receiving Truth, to their minds being pre¬ 
possessed by false opinions—they having prejudged the question. 
The passage is as follows:—“ When men have once acquiesced 
in untrue opinions, and registered them as authenticated records 


* 


Works, edited by Sir \V. Molesworth, iv. 1. 



HOBBES. 


497 


in their minds, it is no less impossible to speak intelligibly to 
such men than to write legibly on a paper already scribbled 
over.” 

Hobbes’s position in the History of Philosophy is easily as¬ 
signed. On the question of the origin of our knowledge he 
takes a decided stand upon Experience: he is the precursor of 
modern Materialism: 

“ Concerning the thoughts of man I will consider them first 
singly, and afterwards in a train or dependence upon one another. 
Singly they are every one a representation or appearance of 
some quality or other accident of a body without us, which is 
commonly called an object. Which object worketh on the eyes, 
ears, and other parts of a man’s body; and by diversity of work¬ 
ing, produceth diversity of appearances. 

“ The original of them all is that which we call Sense , for there 
is no conception in a man’s mind which hath not at first, totally 
or by parts, been begotten upon the organs of sense. The rest 
are derived from that original.”* 

We have here stated, in the broadest manner, the principle 
of Materialism. It is in direct antagonism to the doctrine of 
Descartes that there are innate ideas; in direct antagonism to 
the old doctrine of the spirituality of Mind. Theoretically this 
principle may be insignificant; historically it is important. 

Hobbes’s language is plain enough, but we will still further 
quote from him, to obviate any doubt as to his meaning. 

“According to the two principal parts of man, I divide his 
faculties into two sorts—faculties of the body, and faculties of 
the mind. 

“ Since the minute and distinct anatomy of the powers of the 
body is nothing necessary to the present purpose, I will only sum 
them up in these three heads,—power nutritive , power genera¬ 
tive , and power motive. 


* Leviathan , ch. 1. In the following exposition we shall sometimes cite 
from the Leviathan , and sometimes from the Human Nature. This genera 
reference will enable us to dispense with iterated loot-notes. 



±9S 


HOBBES. 


“ Of the powers of the mind there be two sorts— cognitive, im 
aginative, or conceptive and motive. 

“For the understanding of what I mean by the power cogni¬ 
tive, we must remember and acknowledge that there be in our 
minds continually certain images or conceptions of the things 
without us. This imagery and representation of the qualities of 
the things without, is that which we call our conception, imagi¬ 
nation, ideas, notice, or knowledge of them; and the faculty, or 
power by which we are capable of such knowledge, is that I 
here call cognitive power, or conceptive , the power of knowing or 
conceiving.” 

The mind is thus wholly constructed out of sense. Nor must 
we be deceived by the words faculty and power, as if they meant 
any activity of the mind—as if they implied that the mind co¬ 
operated with sense. The last sentence of the foregoing passage 
is sufficient to clear up this point. He elsewhere says :—“ All 
the qualities called sensible are, in the object that causeth them, 
but so many several motions of the matter by which it presseth 
on our organs diversely. Neither in us that are pressed are they 
any thing else but divers motions ; for motion produceth nothing 
but motion .” 

Hobbes, therefore, and not Locke, is the precursor of that 
school of Psychology which flourished in the eighteenth century 
(principally in France), and which made every operation of the 
mind proceed out of transformed sensations ; which ended, logi¬ 
cally enough, in saying that to think is to feel — penser c'est 
sentir. 

It is to Hobbes that the merit is due of a discovery which, 
though so familiar to us now as to appear self-evident, was yet 
in truth a most important discovery, and was adopted by Des¬ 
cartes in his Meditations *—it is that our sensations do not cor¬ 
respond with any external qualities; that what are called sen- 

* Descartes may possibly have discovered it for himself; but the priority 
of publication is at any rate due to Hobbes—a fact first noticed, we believe, 
by Mr. Hallam: Literature of Europe, iii. 271. 



HOBBES. 


409 


sible qualities are nothing but modifications of the sentient 
being: 

“ Because the image in vision, consisting of color and shape, 
is the knowledge we have of the qualities of the object of that 
sense; it is no hard matter for a man to fall into this opinion 
that the same color and shape are the very qualities themselves; 
and for the same cause that sound and noise are the qualities of 
the bell or of the air. And this opinion hath been so long re¬ 
ceived that the contrary must needs appear a great paradox; 
and yet the introduction of species visible and intelligible (which 
is necessary for the maintenance of that opinion) passing to and 
fro from the object is worse than any paradox, as being a plain 
impossibility. I shall therefore endeavor to make plain these 
points: 

“ That the subject wherein color and image are inherent, is not 
the object or thing seen. 

“ That there is nothing without us (really) which we call an 
image or color. 

“That the said image or color is but an apparition unto us ot 
the motion , agitation, or alteration which the object worketh in the 
brain , or spirits, or some internal substance of the head. 

“ That as in vision, so also in conceptions that arise from the 
other senses, the subject of their inference is not the object, but 
the sentient.” 

This important principle, which Carneades among the ancients 
alone seems to have suspected, Hobbes has very clearly and con¬ 
clusively illustrated. 

Sense furnishes us with conceptions; but as there are other 
operations of the mind besides the conceptive, it remains to be 
seen how sense can also be the original of them. 

And first, of Imagination. Mr. Hallam has noticed the acute¬ 
ness and originality which often characterize Hobbes’s remarks; 
and he instances the opening of the chapter on Imagination in 
the Leviathan. It is worth quoting:—“That when a thing lies 
still, unless somewhat else stir it, it will lie still forever, is a truth 
35 


500 


HOBBES. 


no one doubts of. But that when a thing is in motion it will 
eternally 'be in motion, unless somewhat else stay it, though the 
reason be the same, namely that nothing can change itself, is not 
so easily assented to. For men measure not only other men but 
all other things by themselves; and, because they find them¬ 
selves subject after motion to pain and lassitude, think every 
thing else grows weary of motion, and seeks repose of its own 
accord; little considering whether it be not some other motion 
wherein that desire of rest, they find in themselves, consisteth.” 
Imagination Hobbes defines as a “conception remaining and by 
little and little decaying from and after the act of sense.” . . . 
“ Imagination, therefore, is but decaying sense.” The reader must 
not here understand by imagination any thing more than the re¬ 
taining of an image of the object, after the object is removed. It 
is the term used by Hobbes to express what James Mill happily 
called Ideation. Sense, Sensation; ideas, Ideation. Hobbes 
says, sense, Sensation ; images, Imagination. 

The materialism of Hobbes’s theory does not consist merely in 
his language (as is the case with some philosophers—Locke, for 
instance); it lies at the very root of the theory. Thus, he says, 
we have sensations and we have images—ideas. Whence those 
images ? “ When a body is once in motion it moveth, unless 

something hinder it, eternally; and whatsoever hindereth it, can¬ 
not in an instant, but in time and by degrees, quite extinguish 
it; and as we see in the water, though the wind cease, the waves 
give not over rolling for a long time after: so also it happeneth 
in that motion which is made in the internal parts of man ; then, 
when he sees, dreams, etc. For after the object is removed, or 
the eye shut, we still retain an image of the thing seen, though 
more obscure than when we see it. . . . The decay of sense in 
men waking is not the decay of the motion made in sense, but 
an obscuring of it, in such manner as the light of the sun ob- 
scureth the light of the stars; which stars do no less exercise 
their virtue, by which they are visible, in the day than in the 
night. But becaus’e amongst many strokes which our eyes, ears, 


501 


HOBBES. 


and other organs receive from external bodies, the predominant 
only is sensible; therefore the light of the sun being predomi¬ 
nant, we are not affected with the action of the stars.” This illus¬ 
tration is very happy; but it only serves to bring out into 
stronger relief the materialism of the theory. lie has told us 
what Imagination is; let us now learn what is Memory. “ This 
decaying sense, when we would express the thing itself, I mean 
fancy itself, we call imagination, as I have said before ; but when 
we would express the decay, and signify that the sense is fading, 
old, and past, it is called memory. So that imagination and 
memory are but one thing, which for divers considerations hath 
divers names.” Mr. Hallam objects to this, and says that it is 
very evident that imagination and memory are distinguished by 
something more than their names. Truly, by us; but not by 
Hobbes; he evidently uses the word imagination in a more ge- 
nerical sense than we use it: he means by it Ideation. Thus he 
calls dreams “the imagination of them that sleep.” It is that 
state of the mind which remains when the objects which agitated 
it by sensations are removed : the mind is then not so agitated, 
but neither is it calm; and he compares that state to the gentle 
rolling of the waves after the wind hath ceased. 

Let this be distinctly borne in mind: Hobbes sees nothing in 
the intellect but what was previously in the sense. Sensations, 
and the traces which they leave (t. e. images), form the simple 
elements of all knowledge ; the various commixtures of these ele¬ 
ments form the various intellectual faculties. We may now open 
at the third chapter of the Leviathan. In it he propounded, as 
something quite simple and obvious, the very important law of 
association of ideas.* He states it with great clearness and 
thorough mastery, though he evidently was quite unaware of its 
extensive application. 

“ When a man thinketh,” he says, “on any thing whatsoever, 
his next thought after is not altogether so casual as it seems to 

o o 

* See Sir W. Hamilton’s Dissertation affixed to Reid's Worlcs , p. 898, for 

& history of this law of association. 

•/ 




502 


HOBBES. 


be. Not every thought to every thought succeeds indifferently 
But as we have no imagination whereof we have not formerly 
had sense in whole or in parts, so we have no transition from 
one imagination to another whereof we never had the like before 
in our senses. The reason whereof is this: all fancies (i. e. im¬ 
ages) are motions ivithin us, relicts of those made in sense ; and 
those motions that immediately succeed one another in the sense 
continue also together after the sense; insomuch as the former 
coming again to take place and be predominant, the latter fol- 
loweth by coherence of the matter moved, in such manner as 
water upon a plain table is drawn which way any one part of it 
is guided by the finger.” 

The materialism here is distinct enough. He continues, in 
excellent style : “This train of thoughts, or mental discourse, is 
of two sorts. The first is unguided, without design, and incon¬ 
stant, wherein there is no passionate thought to govern and di¬ 
rect those that follow to itself, as the end and scope of some 
desire or other passion; in which case the thoughts are said to 
wander, and seem impertinent one to another, as in a dream. 
Such are commonly the thoughts of men that are not only with¬ 
out company, but also without care of any thing; though even 
then their thoughts are as busy as at other times, but without 
harmony; as the sound which a lute out of tune would yield to 
any man; or in tune, to one that could not play. And yet in 
this wild ranging of the mind, a man may ofttimes perceive the 
way of it, and the dependence of one thought upon another. 
For in a discourse of our present civil war, what would seem more 
impertinent than to ask, as one did, what was the value of a 
Roman penny ? Yet the coherence to me was manifest enough. 
For the thought of the war introduced the thought of delivering 
up the King to his enemies; the thought of that brought in the 
thought of the delivering up of Christ; and that again the 
thought of the thirty pence, which was the price of that treason ; 
and thenee easily followed that malicious question, and all this 
n a moment of time; for thought is quick.” 


HOBBES. 


503 


“ For thought is quick.” This is the simple pregnant com¬ 
ment, justly deemed sufficient. It is no purpose of this history 
to dwell upon literary merits; “ but the style,” as Buffon says, 
“ is the man,”* and occasionally we are forced to notice it. The 
plain direct remark with which Hobbes concludes the above 
passage, would, in the hands of many moderns, have run some¬ 
what thus: “How wonderful is thought! how mighty! how 
mysterious! In its lightning speed it traverses ail space, and 
makes the past present.” Hobbes, with a few simple, direct 
words, produces a greater impression than would all the swelling 
pomp of a passage bristling with notes of exclamation. This is 
the secret of his style. It is also the characteristic of his specula¬ 
tions. Whatever faults they may have, they have no vagueness, 
no pretended profundity. As much of the truth as he has 
clearly seen he clearly exhibits: what he has not seen he does 
not pretend to see. 

One important deduction from his principles he has drawn: 
“ Whatsoever we imagine is finite. Therefore there is no idea, 
no conception of any thing we call infinite. No man can have 
in his mind an image of infinite magnitude, nor conceive infinite 
swiftness, infinite time, or infinite power. When we say that 
any thing is infinite, we signify only that we are not able to con¬ 
ceive the ends and bounds of the thing named, having no con¬ 
ception of the thing, but of our own inability. And therefore 
the name of God is used not to make us conceive him, for he is 
incomprehensible, and his greatness and power are inconceivable, 
but that we may honor him. Also, because whatsoever we con- 

* I leave this passage as it originally stood, for the sake of correcting a 
universal error. I have since detected it to be an error by the simple pro¬ 
cess of reading Buffon’s actual words, which some French writer misquoted 
from memory, and which thousands have repeated without misgiving, al¬ 
though the phrase is an absurdity. The phrase occurs in Buffon’s Discours 
de Reception a VAcademie , where speaking of style as that alone capable ot 
conferring immortality on works, because the matter was prepared by pre¬ 
ceding ages, and must soon become common property, whereas style re¬ 
mains a part of the man himself; he adds, “ Cee choses sont hors de Vhomme ; 
le style est de Vhomme meme .” There is immense difference between saying 
le style c'est Vhomme , and le style est de Vhomme. 



504 


IIOBBES. 


ceive lias been perceived first by sense, either all at once or by 
parts, a man can have no thought representing any thing not sub¬ 
ject to Sense .” 

This is frank, but is it true ? On Hobbes’s principles it is irre 
sistible. His error lies in assuming that all our thoughts must 
be images. So far is this from being true, that not even all our 
sensations are capable of forming images. "What images are 
given by the sensations of heat or cold, of music or of taste? 

Every man’s consciousness will assure him that thoughts are 
not always images. It will also assure him that he has the idea, 
notion, conception, figment (or whatever name he may give the 
thought) of Infinity. If he attempts to form an image of it, 
that image will of course be finite : it would not otherwise be an 
image. But he can think of it; he can reason of it. It is a 
thought. It is in his mind; though how it got there may be a 
question. The incompleteness of Hobbes’s psychology lies in 
the inability to answer this question. If the maxim he adopts 
be true, nihil est in intellectu quod non prius fuerit in sensu , the 
question is insoluble; or rather the question itself is a practical 
refutation of the maxim. 

We insist upon Hobbes’s materialism, the better to prepare the 
reader for a correct appreciation of Locke, one of the most 
misrepresented of plain writers. Hobbes, in the sixth chapter 
of his Human Nature , has very carefully defined what he means 
by knowledge. “ There is a story somewhere,” he says, “ of one 
that pretends to have been miraculously cured of blindness, 
wherewith he was born, by St. Alban or other saints, at the 
town of St. Albans; and that the Duke of Gloucester being 
there, to be satisfied of the truth of the miracle, asked the man, 
What color is this? who, by answering it was green, discovered 
himself, and was punished for a counterfeit: for though by his 
sight newly received he might distinguish between green and 
red and all other colors, as well as any that should interrogate 
him, yet he could not possibly know, at first sight, which of them 
was called green, or red, or by any other name. 


HOBBES. 


505 


“ By this we may understand there he two kinds of knowl¬ 
edge, whereof the one is nothing else but sense , or knowledge 
original , and remembrance of the same; the other is called 
science , or knowledge of the truth of propositions, and how things 
are called, and is derived from understanding. Both of these 
sorts are but experience ; the former being the experience of the 
effects of things that work upon us from without; and the latter 
experience men have from the proper use of names in language : 
and all experience being, as I have said, but remembrance,-all 
knowledge is remembrance.” 

The only ambiguity possible in the above passage is that which 
might arise from the use of the word understanding. This he 
elsewhere defines as follows: 

“ When a man, upon the hearing of any speech, hath those 
thoughts which the words of that speech in their connection 
were ordained and constituted to signify, then he is said to un¬ 
derstand it; understanding being nothing else but conception 
formed by speech.” 

We must content ourselves with merely alluding to his admi¬ 
rable observations on language, and with quoting, for the hun¬ 
dredth time, his weighty aphorism, “Words are wise men’s coun¬ 
ters ; they do but reckon by them; but they are the money of 
fools.” 

No attempt is here made to do full justice to Hobbes; no¬ 
notice can be taken of the speculations which made him famous.. 
Our object has been fulfilled if we have made clear to the reader 
the position Ilobbes occupies in modern psychological specu¬ 
lation. 


CHAPTER II. 


LOCKE. 

§ L Life of Locke. 

John Locke, one of the wisest of Englishmen, was born at 
Urington, in Somersetshire, on the 29th of August, 1632. Little 
is known of his family, except that his father had served in the 
Parliamentary wars; a fact not without significance in connection 
with the steady love of liberty manifested by the son. 

His education began at Westminster, where he stayed till he 
was nineteen or twenty. He was then sent to Oxford. That 
University was distinguished then, as it has ever been, by its 
attachment to whatever is old : the Past is its model; the Past 
has its affection. That there is much good in this veneration for 
the Past, a few will gainsay. Nevertheless, a University which 
piqued itself on being behind the age, was scarcely the fit place 
for an original thinker. Locke was ill at ease there. The phi¬ 
losophy upheld there was Scholasticism. On such food a mind 
like his could not nourish itself. Like his great predecessor 
Bacon, he imbibed a profound contempt for the University 
studies, and in after-life regretted that so much of his time 
should have been wasted on such profitless pursuits. So deeply 
convinced was he of the vicious method of college education, 
that he ran into the other extreme, and thought self-education 
the best. There is a mixture of truth and error in this notion. 
It is true that all great men have been mainly self-taught; all 
that is most valuable a man must learn for himself, must work 
out for himself. The error of Locke’s position is the assumption 
that all men will educate themselves if left to themselves. The 
fact is, the majority have to be educated by force. For those 


LIFE OF LOCKE. 507 

who, if left to themselves, would never educate themselves, col¬ 
leges and schools are indispensable. 

Locke’s notion of an educated man is very characteristic of 
him. Writing to Lord Peterborough, he says, “Your Lordship 
would have your son’s tutor a thorough scholar, and I think it 
not much matter whether he be any scholar or no: if he but 
understand Latin well and have a general scheme of the sciences, 
I think that enough. But I would have him well-bred and 
well-tempered.” 

Disgusted with the disputes which usurped the title of Phi¬ 
losophy, Locke principally devoted himself to Medicine while at 
Oxford. His proficiency is attested by two very different per- 
sous, and in two very different ways. Dr. Sydenham, in the 
Dedication of his Observations on the History and Cure of 
Acute Diseases , boasts of the approbation bestowed on his 
Method by Mr. John Locke, “ who examined it to the bottom; 
and who, if we consider his genius and penetrating and exact 
judgment, has scarce any superior, and few equals now living.” 
The second testimony is that afforded by Lord Shaftesbury, 
when Locke first met him. The Earl was suffering from an 
abscess in the chest. No one could discover the nature of his 
disorder. Locke at once divined it. The Earl followed his ad¬ 
vice, submitted to an operation, and was saved. A close inti¬ 
macy sprang up between them. Locke accompanied him to 
London, and resided principally in his house. 

His attention was thus turned to politics. His visits to Hol¬ 
land delighted him. “ The blessings which the people there en¬ 
joyed under a government peculiarly favorable to civil and 
religious liberty, amply compensated, in his view, for what their 
uninviting territory wanted in scenery and climate.”* He also 
visited France and Germany, making the acquaintance of several 
distinguished men. 

In 1G70 he planned his Essay concerning Human Understand - 


* Dugald Stewart. 



50S 


LOCKE. 


ing. This he did not complete till 1687. In 1675 the delicate 
state of his health obliged him to travel, and he repaired to the 
south of France, where he met Lord Pembroke. To him the 
Essay is dedicated. He returned in 1679, and resumed his 
studies at Oxford. But his friendship for Shaftesbury, and the 
liberal opinions he was known to hold, drew upon him the dis¬ 
pleasure of the Court. He was deprived of his studentship by 
a very arbitrary act.* Nor did persecution stop there. He was 
soon forced to quit England, and find refuge at the Hague. 
There also the anger of the king pursued him, and he was 
obliged to retreat further into Holland. It was there he pub¬ 
lished his celebrated Letter on Toleration. 

He did not return to England till after the Revolution. Then 
there was security and welcome. He was pressed to accept a 
high diplomatic office in Germany, but the state of his health 
prevented him. In 1690 the first edition of his Essay appeared. 
He had indeed already (1688) published an abridgment of it in 
Leclerc’s Libliotlieque Universelle . The success of this Essay 
was immense; and Warburton’s assertion to the contrary falls 
to the ground on the mere statement of the number of editions 
which the work rapidly went through. Six editions within four¬ 
teen years,f and in times when books sold more slowly than they 
sell now, is evidence enough. 

The publication of his Essay roused great opposition. He 
soon got involved in the discussions with Stillingfleet, Bishop of 
Worcester. He was soon after engaged in the political discus¬ 
sions of the day, and published his Treatise on Government. It 
was about this time that he became acquainted with Sir Isaac 


* See Macaulay, History of England, i. 545-G. 

f The writer of the article Locke , in the Ency. Brit ., says that the fourth 
edition appeared in 1700. Victor Cousin repeats the statement, and adds 
that a fifth edition was preparing when death overtook the author; this 
fifth edition appearing in 1705. We know not on what authority these 
writers speak; but that they are in error may be seen by turning to Locke’s 
Epistle to the Reader , the last paragraph of which announces that the edition 
then issued by Locke himself is the sixth. 



509 


SPIRIT OF LOCKE’S WRITINGS. 

Newton; and a portion of their very interesting correspondence 
has been given by Lord King in his Life of Locke. 

Locke’s health, though always delicate, had not been disturbed 
by any imprudences, so that he reached the age of seventy-two 
—a good ripe age for one who had studied and thought. He 
expired in the arms of his friend, Lady Masham, on the 28th of 
October, 1704. 

§ II. On the Spirit of Locke’s Writings. 

It has for many years been the fashion to decry Locke. In¬ 
direct sneers at his “ superficiality ” abound in the writings of 
those who, because their thought is so muddy that they cannot 
see its shallow bottom, fancy they are profound. Locke’s “ma¬ 
terialism ” is also a favorite subject of condolence with these 
writers; and they assert that his principles “ lead to atheism.” 
Lead whom ? 

Another mode of undervaluing Locke is to assert that he only 
borrowed and popularized the ideas originated by Hobbes. The 
late Mr. Hazlitt—an acute thinker, and a metaphysician, but a 
wilful reckless writer—deliberately asserted that Locke owed 
every thing to Hobbes. Hr. Whewell repeats the charge, though 
in a more qualified manner. He says, “ Hobbes had already 
promulgated the main doctrines, which Locke afterwards urged, 
on the subject of the origin and nature of our knowledge.” 

Again, “ Locke owed his authority mainly to the intellectual 
circumstances of the time. Although a writer of great merit, 
he by no means possesses such metaphysical acuteness, or such 
philosophical largeness of view, or such a charm of writing, as 
to give him the high place he has held in the literature of 
Europe.” 

That Locke did not borrow his ideas from Hobbes will be very 
apparent in our exposition of Locke; but meanwhile we may 
quote the testimony of Sir James Mackintosh, one of the best 
read of our philosophers, and one intimately acquainted with 
both these thinkers:— 


510 


LOCKE. 


“ Locke and Hobbes agree chiefly on those points in which 
except the Cartesians, all the speculators of their age were agreed. 
They differ on the most momentous questions—the sources of 
knowledge, the power of abstraction, the nature of the will; on 
the two last of which subjects, Locke, by his very failures them¬ 
selves, evinces a strong repugnance to the doctrine of Hobbes. 
They differ not only in their premises and many of their con¬ 
clusions, but in their manner of philosophizing itself. Locke 
had no prejudice which could lead him to imbibe doctrines from 
the enemy of liberty and religion. His style, with all its faults, 
is that of a man who thinks for himself; and an original style 
is not usually the vehicle of borrowed opinions.” * 

To this passage we will add another from a still more distin¬ 
guished judge: 

“Few among the great names in philosophy have met with a 
harder measure of justice from the present generation than 
Locke, the unquestioned founder of the analytic philosophy of 
mind, but whose doctrines were first caricatured, then, when the 
reaction arrived, cast off by the prevailing school even with con¬ 
tumely, and who is now regarded by one of the conflicting parties 
in philosophy as an apostle of heresy and sophistry; while 
among those who still adhere to the standard which he raised, 
there has been a disposition in later times to sacrifice his repu¬ 
tation in favor of Hobbes—a great writer and a great thinker 
for his time, but inferior to Locke not only in sober judgment, 
but even in profundity and original genius. Locke, the most 
candid of philosophers, and one whose speculations bear on every 
subject the strongest mark of having been wrought out from 
the materials of his own mind, has been mistaken for an un¬ 
worthy plagiarist, while Hobbes has been extolled as having an¬ 
ticipated many of his leading doctrines. He did not anticipate 
many of them, and the present is an instance in what manner 
it was generally done. [The writer is speaking of Locke’s refu* 


* Edinburgh Review for October, 1821, p. 242. 




spirit of locke’s writings. 511 

tation of Essences^ They both rejected the scholastic doctrine 
of Essences, but Locke understood and explained what these 
supposed essences were. Hobbes, instead of explaining the dis¬ 
tinction between essential and accidental properties, and between 
essential and accidental propositions, jumped over it, and gave a 
definition which suits, at most, only essential propositions, and 
scarcely those, as the definition of Proposition in general.”* 

Dugald Stewart indeed says, “ that it must appear evident 
Locke had diligently studied the writings of Hobbesbut Sir 
J. Mackintosh, as quoted above, has explained why Locke appears 
to have studied Hobbes ; and Stewart is far from implying that 
Locke therefore gained his principal ideas from Hobbes. In¬ 
deed he has an admirable note in "which he points out how 
completely Locke’s own w T as the important principle of Re¬ 
flection. “ This was not merely a step beyond Hobbes, but the 
correction of an error w r hicli lies at the very root of Hobbes’s 
system.”! 

That Locke never read Hobbes may seem incredible, but is, 
we are convinced, the truth. It is one among many examples 
of how few were the books he had read. He never alludes to 
Hobbes in any way that can be interpreted into having read him. 
Twice only, we believe, does he allude to him, and then so dis¬ 
tantly, and with such impropriety, as to be almost convincing 
with respect to his ignorance. The first time is in his Reply to 
the Bishop of Worcester , in which he absurdly classes Hobbes 
and Spinoza together. He says, “I am not so well read in 
Hobbes and Spinoza as to be able to say what were their 
opinions on this matter, but possibly there be those who will 
think your Lordship’s authority of more use than those justly 
decried writers .” The form of expression, “ I am not so well 
read,” etc., is obviously equivalent to—I have never read those 
justly decried writers. His second allusion is simply this:— 

* Mill’s System of logic, i. 150. 

+ Dissertation on the Progress of Metaph. Philosophy , p. 235 (Hamilton’s 
ed.). The note is very long and curious. 




512 


LOCKE. 


“ A Hobbist would probably say.” We cannot at present lay 
our bands on the passage, but it refers to some moral question. 

The above is only negative evidence. Something like positive 
evidence however is the fact that Hobbes’s doctrine of Association 
of Ideas—a principle as simple of apprehension as it is impor¬ 
tant—was completely unknown to Locke, who, in the fourth or 
fifth edition, added the chapter on association as it now stands. 
Moreover, Locke’s statement of the law is by no means so satis¬ 
factory as that by Hobbes: lie had not so thoroughly mastered 
it; yet had he read it in Hobbes, he would assuredly have im¬ 
proved on it. That he did not at first introduce it into his work 
is a strong presumption that he had not then read Hobbes, be¬ 
cause the law is so simple and so evident, when stated, that it 
must produce instantaneous conviction. 

It is strange that any man should have read Locke, and ques¬ 
tioned his originality. There is scarcely a writer we could name 
whose works bear such an indisputable impress of his having 
“ raised himself above the almsbasket, and not content to live 
lazily on scraps of begged opinions, set his own thoughts to work 
to find and follow truth.” It is still more strange that any man 
should have read Locke and questioned his power. That patient 
sagacity which, above all things, distinguishes a philosopher, is 
more remarkable in Locke than almost any writer. He was also 
largely endowed with good sense; a quality, Gibbon remarks, 
which is rarer than genius. In these two qualities, and in his 
homely racy masculine style, we see the type of the English 
mind, when at its best. The plain directness of his manner, his 
earnestness without fanaticism, his hearty honest love of truth, 
and the depth and pertinence of his thoughts, are qualities which, 
though they do not dazzle the reader, yet win his love and respect. 
In that volume, you have the honest thoughts of a great honest 
Englishman. It is the product of a manly mind: clear, truthful, 
direct. No vague formulas—no rhetorical flights—no base flat¬ 
tery of base prejudices—no assumption of oracular wisdom—no 
word-jugglery. There are so many writers who cover their 


SPIRIT OF LOCKE'S WRITINGS. 


513 


vanity with a veil of words, who seem profound because they are 
obscure, that a plainness like Locke’s deceives the careless reader, 
who is led to suppose that what is there so plain must have been 
obvious. 

Locke, though a patient, cautious thinker, was any thing but a 
timid thinker; and it does great honor to his sagacity, that at 
a time when all scientific men were exclaiming against the danger 
of hypotheses, believing that the extravagant errors of Schoolmen 
and alchemists w T ere owing to their use of hypotheses—a time 
when the great Newton himself could be led into the unphilo' 
sopliical boast hypotheses non Jingo , our wise Locke should 
exactly appreciate them at their true value. He says,— 

“Not that we may not, to explain any phenomena of nature, 
make use of any probable hypotheses whatsoever. Hypotheses, 
if they are well made, are at least great helps to memory, and 
often direct us to new discoveries. But w T e should not take them 
up too hastily (which the mind that would always penetrate into 
the causes of things, and have principles to rest on, is very apt 
to do) till we have very -well examined particulars, and made 
several experiments in that thing which we would explain by 
our hypothesis, and see whether it will agree to them all; 
whether our principles will carry us quite through, and not be as 
inconsistent with one phenomenon of nature as they seem to 
accommodate and explain another; and, at least, that we take 
care that the name of principles deceive us not nor impose on us, 
by making us receive that for an unquestionable truth which is 
really at best but a very doubtful conjecture : such as are most 
(I had almost said all) of the hypotheses in natural philosophy.” 

Locke did not seek to dazzle; he sought Truth, and wished all 
men to accompany him in the search. He would exchange his 
opinions with ease when he fancied that he saw their error. He 
readily retracted ideas which he had published in an immature 
form ; “ thinking himself,” as he says, “ more concerned to quit 
and renounce any opinion of my own than oppose that of auother, 
when truth appears against it.” He had a just and incurable 


514 


LOCKE. 


suspicion of all “great volumes swollen with ambiguous words.” 
He knew how much jugglery goes on with words; some of it 
conscious, some of it unconscious, but all pernicious. “Vague 
and insignificant forms of speech and abuse of language have for 
so long passed for mysteries of science ; and hard and misapplied 
words, with little or no meaning, have, by prescription, such a 
l ight to be mistaken for deep learning and height of speculation, 
that it will not be easy to persuade either those who speak, or 
those who hear them, that they are but the covers of ignorance 
and hindrance of true knowledge. To break in upon this sanctu¬ 
ary of vanity and ignorance will be, I suppose, some service to 
the human understanding.” 

Locke had an analytical mind. He desired to understand and 
to explain things, not to write rhetorically about them. There 
were mysteries enough which he was contented to let alone ; he 
knew that human faculties were limited, and reverentially sub¬ 
mitted to ignorance on all things beyond his reach. But though 
he bowed down before that which was essentially mysterious, lie 
was anxious not to allow that which was essentially cognizable 
to be enveloped in mystery. Let that which is a mystery remain 
undisturbed: let that which is not necessarily a mystery be 
brought into the light of day. Know the limits of your under¬ 
standing —beyond those limits it is madness to attempt to pene¬ 
trate ; within those limits it is folly to let in darkness and 
mystery, to be incessantly wondering and always assuming that 
matters cannot be so plain as they appear, and that something 
lying deeper courts our attention. 

To minds otherwise constituted—to men who love to dwell in 
the vague regions of speculation, and are only at ease in an intel¬ 
lectual twilight—Locke is naturally a disagreeable teacher. He 
flatters none of their prejudices; he falls in with none of their 
tendencies. Mistaking obscurity for depth, they accuse him of 
being superficial. The owls declare the eagle is blind. TlieN 
want the twilight; he 

“ Wantons in the smile of Jove.” 


lucke's method. 


515 


They sneer at his “shallowness.” So frequent are the sneers and 
off-hand charges against him, that I, who had read him in my 
youth with delight, began to suspect that my admiration had 
been rash. The proverb says, “ Throw but mud enough, some 
will be sure to stick.” It was so with Locke. Reiterated de¬ 
preciation had somewhat defaced his image in my mind. The 
time came however when, for the purposes of this history, I had 
to read the Essay on Human Understanding once more, care¬ 
fully, pen in hand. The image of John Locke was again revived 
within me; this time in more than its former splendor. His 
modesty, honesty, truthfulness, and directuess I had never doubt¬ 
ed ; but now the vigor and originality of his mind, the raciness 
of his colloquial style, the patient analysis by which he has laid 
open to us such vast tracts of thought, and above all, the manli¬ 
ness ofhis truly practical understanding, are so strongly impressed 
upon me, that I feel satisfied the best answer to his critics is to 
say, “Read him” From communion with such a mind as his, 
nothing but good can result. He suggests as much as he teaches; 
and it has been well said, “ that we cannot speak of his Essay 
without the deepest reverence; whether we consider the era 
which it constitutes in philosophy, the intrinsic value (even at 
the present day) of its thoughts, or the noble devotion to truth, 
the beautiful and touching earnestness and simplicity which he 
not only manifests in himself, but has the power, beyond almost 
any writer, of infusing into his reader.” 

§ III. Locke’s Method. 

“It may be said that Locke created the science of Meta¬ 
physics,” says D’Alembert, “ in somewhat the same way as New¬ 
ton created Physics. ... To understand the soul, its ideas and 
its affections, he did not study books; they would have misdi¬ 
rected him; he was content to descend within himself, and after 
having, so to speak, contemplated himself a long while, he pre¬ 
sented in his Essay the mirror in which he had seen himself. 

36 


51G LOCKE. 

In one word, he reduced Metaphysics to that which it ought tc 
be, viz. the experimental physics of the mind.”* 

This is great praise, and from high authority, but we suspect 
that it can only be received with some qualification. Locke made 
no grand discovery which changed the face of science. He was 
not even the first to turn his glance inwards. Descartes and 
Iiobbes had been before him. 

Yet Locke had his Method; a Method peculiarly his own. 
Others before him had cast a hasty glance inwards, and dogma¬ 
tized upon what they saw. He was the first to watch patiently 
the operations of his mind, that, watching, he might surprise the 
evanescent thoughts, and steal from them the secret of their com¬ 
binations. He is the founder of Modern Psychology. By him 
the questions of Philosophy are boldly and scientifically reduced 
to the primary question of the limits of human understanding. 
By him is begun the history of the development and combination 
of our thoughts. Others had contented themselves with the 
thoughts as they found them; Locke sedulously inquired into 
the origin of all our thoughts. 

M. Victor Cousin, who, as a rhetorician, is in constant antago¬ 
nism to the clear and analytical Locke, makes it an especial 
grievance that Locke and his school have considered the ques¬ 
tion respecting the origin of ideas as fundamental. “ It is from 
Locke,” he continues, “that has been borrowed the custom ot 
referring to savages and children, upon whom observation is so 
difficult; for the one class we must trust to the reports of travel¬ 
lers, often prejudiced and ignorant of the language of the country 
visited; for the other class (children), we are reduced to very 
equivocal signs.”f 

We cannot see how Locke should avoid referring to savages 
and children, if he wanted to collect facts concerning the origin 
of ideas; it is a practice inseparable from the psychological 

* “ En un mot, il reduisit la metaphysique a ce qu’elle doit 6tre, en effet, 
>a physique experimentale de 1’Ame .*’—Discours Prelim, de VEncyclopedic. 

+ Histoire de la Philos. 17 le<jon. 



locke’s method. 


517 


Method. Perhaps no source of error has been more abundant 
than the obstinacy with which men have in all times looked 
upon their indissoluble associations as irresistible truths—as 
primary and universal truths. A little analysis—a little observa¬ 
tion of minds removed from the influences which fostered those 
associations, would prove that those associations were not uni¬ 
versal truths, but simply associations. It is because men have 
analyzed the mind in its cultivated condition, that they have 
been led to false results; had they compared their analysis with 
that of an uncultivated mind, they might have gained some in¬ 
sight. The objection against Locke’s practice could only pro¬ 
ceed from men who study psychology without previous acquaint¬ 
ance with physiology—which, though they do not know it, is 
the same as studying functions without any knowledge of the 
organs. Locke was the first who systematically sought in the 
history of the development of the mind for answers to many of 
the fundamental questions of psychology, and he has been blamed 
for this, in the same spirit as that which dictated the sneers of 
John Hunter’s professional contemporaries, because that admira¬ 
ble anatomist sought in comparative anatomy for elucidation of 
many anatomical problems. Now-a-days no well-informed student 
is ignorant of the fact that Comparative Physiology, and Embry¬ 
ology, are our surest guides in all biological questions, simply 
because we therein see the problems gradually removed from 
many of the complexities which frustrate our research in the 
higher and more completely developed organisms. Locke saw 
clearly enough that the philosophers were accustomed to con¬ 
sider their minds as types of the human mind; whereas their 
minds, being filled with false notions and warped by prejudices, 
could in nowise be taken as types; for even granting that the 
majority of their notions were true , yet these true notions were 
not portions of the furniture of universal minds. He sought tor 
illustrations from such minds as had not been so warped. 

His object was “to inquire into the original , certainty , and 
extent of human knowledge.” He was led to this by a conver* 


518 


LOCKE. 


sation with some friends, in which, disputes growing warm, “ ad 
ter we had puzzled ourselves awhile, without coming any nearer 
a resolution of those doubts which perplexed us, it came into my 
thoughts that we took a wrong course ; and that before we set 
ourselves upon inquiries of that nature, it was necessary to ex¬ 
amine our own abilities, and see what objects our understandings 
were or were not fitted to deal ivithfi 

The plan he himself laid down is as follows: 

“ First, I shall inquire into the original of those ideas, notions, 
or whatever else you please to call them, which a man observes 
and is conscious to himself he has in his mind; and the ways 
whereby the understanding comes to be furnished with them. 

“ Secondly, I shall endeavor to show what knowledge the un¬ 
derstanding hath by those ideas; and the certainty, evidence, 
and extent of it. 

“Thirdly, I shall make some inquiry into the nature and 
grounds of faith or opinion; whereby I mean that assent which 
we give to any proposition as true, of whose truth we have yet 
no certain knowledge; and we shall have occasion to examine 
the reasons and degrees of assent.” 

We may here see decisively settled the question so often raised 
respecting the importance of Locke’s Inquiry into Innate Ideas. 
“For Locke and his school,” says M. Cousin, justly, “the study 
of understanding is the study of Ideas; hence the recent cele¬ 
brated name of Ideology for the designation of the science of 
mind.” Indeed, as we have shown, the origin of Ideas was the 
most important of all questions; upon it rested the whole prob¬ 
lem of Philosophy. 

According to the origin of our Ideas may we assign to them 
their validity. If they are of human growth and development, 
they will necessarily partake of human limitations. As Pascal 
well says, “ Si l’homme commen^oit par s’etudier lui-meme, il 
verroit combien il est incapable de passer outre/' Comment 
pourroit-il se faire qu’une partie connut le tout ?” 

Locke has given us a few indications of the state of opinion 


locke’s method. 


519 


respecting lunate Ideas, which it is worth while collecting. “ I 
have been told that a short epitome of this treatise, which was 
printed in 1688, was condemned by some without reading, be¬ 
cause innate ideas were denied in it, they too hastily concluding 
that if innate ideas were not supposed, there would be little left 
either of the notion or proof of spirits.” Recapitulating the con¬ 
tents of the chapter devoted to the refutation of innate ideas, he 
says, “ I know not how absurd this may seem to the masters of 
demonstration, and probably it will hardly down with anybody 
at first hearing .” And elsewhere: “What censure doubting 
thus of innate principles may deserve from men, who will be apt 
to call it pulling up the old foundations of knowledge and cer¬ 
tainty, I cannot tell; I persuade myself at least that the way I 
have pursued, being conformable to truth, lays those foundations 
surer.” 

Locke’s Method was purely psychological; although he had 
been a student of medicine, he never indulges in any physiologi¬ 
cal speculations, such as his successors, Hartley and Darwin, de¬ 
lighted in. Ideas, and ideas only, solicited his analysis. Dugald 
Stewart has remarked, that in the Essay there is not a single 
passage savoring of the anatomical theatre or of the chemical 
laboratory. 

We have already spoken of the positivism of Bacon; that of 
Locke shall now speak for itself in his own words:—“ If by this 
inquiry into the nature of the understanding I can discover the 
powers thereof, how far they reach, to what things they are in 
any degree proportionate, and where they fail us, I suppose it 
may be of use to prevail with the busy mind of man to be more 
cautious in meddling with the things exceeding its comprehen¬ 
sion, to stop when it is at the utmost extent of its tether, and sit 
down in a quiet ignorance of those things which upon examination 
are found to be beyond the reach of our capacities. We should 
not then pefhaps be so forward, out of an affectation of universal 
knowledge, to raise questions and perplex ourselves and others 
about things to which our understandings are not suited, and of 


520 


LOCKE. 


which wc cannot frame in our minds any clear or distinct per* 
ceptions, or whereof (as it has perhaps too often happened) wc 
have not any notions at all. Men have reason to be well satis¬ 
fied with what God has thought fit for them, since he has given 
them, as St. Peter says, cavra xai su(fs/3suxv, whatsoever 

is necessary for the convenience of life and the information of 
virtue; and has put within the reach of their discovery the com¬ 
fortable provision for this life, and the way that leads to a better. 
How short soever their knowledge may be of a universal or per¬ 
fect comprehension of whatever is, it yet secures their great con¬ 
cernments, that they have light enough to lead them to the 
knowledge of their Maker and the sight of their own duties. 
Men may find matter sufficient to busy their heads and employ 
their hands with variety, delight, and satisfaction, if they will 
not boldly quarrel with their own constitutions, and throw away 
the blessings their hands are filled with because they are not big 
enough to grasp every thing. 

“ We shall not have much reason to complain of the narrowness 
of our minds, if we will hut employ them about what may he of 
use to us, for of that they are very capable ; and it will be an 
unpardonable as well as childish peevishness, if we undervalue 
the advantages of our knowledge, and neglect to improve it to 
the ends for which it was given us, because there are some things 
set out of reach of it. It will be no excuse to an idle and unto¬ 
ward servant who would not attend his business by candlelight, 
to plead that he had not broad sunshine. The candle that is set 
up unthin us shines bright enough for all our purposes. 

“When we know our own strength we shall the better know 
what to undertake with hopes of success ;* and when we have 
well surveyed the powers of our minds, and made some estimate 
what we may expect from them, we shall not be inclined either 
to sit still, and not set our thoughts on work at all, despairing of 

* “ The real cause and root of almost all the evils in science is this : that 
falsely magnifying aud extolling the powers of tha mind, we seek not its 
true helps/’— Bacon. 



locke’s method. 


521 


knowing any thing; or, on the other side, question every thing, 
and disclaim all knowledge because some things are not to be 
understood. It is of great use to the sailor to know the length 
of his line, though he cannot with it fathom all the depths of the 
ocean. It is well he knows that it is long enough to reach the 
bottom at such places as are necessary to direct his voyage, and 
caution him against running upon any shoals that may ruin 
him. . . . This was that which gave the first rise to this Essay 
concerning the Understanding; for I thought that the first step 
towards satisfying several inquiries the mind of man was very 
apt to run into, was to take a survey of our own understandings, 
and to see to what things they were adapted. Till that was done 
I suspected we began at the wrong end, and in vain sought for 
satisfaction in a quiet and sure possession of truths that most 
concerned us, whilst we let loose our thoughts into the vast 
ocean of being; as if that boundless extent were the natural and 
undoubted possession of our understandings, wherein there is 
nothing exempt from its decisions, or that escaped its compre¬ 
hension. Thus men extending their inquiries beyond their ca¬ 
pacities, and letting their thoughts wander into those depths where 
they can find no sure footing, it is no wonder that they raise 
questions and multiply disputes, which, never coming to any clear 
resolution, are proper only to continue and increase their doubts, 
and to confirm them at last in perfect skepticism.” 

The decisive manner in which Locke separates himself from 
the ontologists is not only historically noteworthy, but is also 
noticeable as giving the tone to his subsequent speculations. 
We have admired the Portico; let us enter the Temple. 

§ TV. The Origin of our Ideas. 

Hobbes had said, with Gassendi, that all our ideas are derived 
from sensations ; nihil €st intellectu quod nonprius fuerit in sensu. 
Locke, who is called a mere popularizer of Hobbes, said that there 
were two sources, not one source, and these two were Sensation 


522 


LOCKE. 


and Reflection. Separating himself decisively from the up¬ 
holders of the doctrine of innate ideas—of truths- independent of 
experience,—he declared that all our knowledge is founded on 
experience, and from experience it ultimately derives itselt. 
Separating himself no less decisively from the Gassendists, who 
saw no source of ideas but Sensation, he declared that although 
Sensation was the great source of most of our ideas, yet there 
was “ another fountain from which experience furnisheth the 
understanding with ideasand this source, “ though it he not 
sense , as having nothing to do with external objects, yet it is very 
like it, and might properly enough be called internal sense this 
he calls Reflection. 

After Dugald Stewart’s ample exposure of the wide-spread 
error that Locke was the chief of the so-called Sensational School, 
we need spend little time in inquiring whether Locke did or did 
not teach that all knowledge was referable to sensation. The 
passages which contradict the vulgar error respecting Locke’s 
doctrine are numerous and decisive. Dugald Stewart has se- 
lected several; but perhaps the one we have quoted above will 
be considered sufficiently explicit. Reflection, he says, “ though 
it be not sense,” may yet analogically be considered as an inter¬ 
nal sense. To prevent all misconception, however, we will as a 
decisive example refer to his proof of the existence of God, which 
he sums up by saying, “ It is plain to me that we have a more 
certain knowledge of the existence of a God than of any thing 
our senses have not immediately discovered to us. Nay, I pre¬ 
sume I may say that we may more certainly know that there is 
a God, than that there is any thing else without us.” (Book IV. 
cli. x.) Locke made the senses the source of all our sensuous 
knowledge; our ideal knowledge (so to speak) he derived from 
Reflection. 

Historians have not accorded due praise to Locke for the im¬ 
portant advance he made towards a solution of the great question 
on the origin of knowledge. While Leibnitz has been lauded to 
the skies for having expressed Locke’s doctrine in an epigram, 


THE ORIGIN OF OUR IDEAS. 


523 


Locke has not only been robbed of his due, but has been sacri¬ 
ficed to his rival. It is commonly said, “ Locke reduced all our 
knowledge to Sensation: Leibnitz came and accepted the old 
adage of nihil est in intellectu quod non prius fuerit in sensu , but 
he accepted it as only half the truth ; and therefore added, nisi 
ipse intellects.' 1 Now, firstly, Locke did not accept the adage 
as the whole truth; he said that Reflection was a second source 
of ideas. Secondly, Dugald Stewart has remarked that the 
addition which Leibnitz made when he said there is nothing in 
the intellect which was not previously in the sense, except the 
intellect itself, expresses no more than the doctrine of Locke, who 
says, “ External objects furnish the mind with ideas of sensible 
qualities; and the mind furnishes the understanding with the 
ideas of its own operations.” Thirdly, although the phrase is 
epigrammatic, and thereby has had such success in the world as 
epigrams usually have, it will not bear scrutiny: few epigrams 
will. Except as a verbal jingle, how trivial is the expression— 
the intellect in the intellect! Suppose a man to say, “ I have no 
money in my purse, except my purse itself,” he would scarcely 
be less absurd. For when the Schoolmen said, “nothing was in 
the intellect which was not previously in the sense,” they did not 
mean that the intellect was the same as the sense; they meant 
that the intellect was furnished with no ideas, notions, or concep¬ 
tions w r hich had not been furnished them by sense; they meant 
that the senses were the inlets to the soul. 

Dr. Whewell approves of the epigram; and alluding to Mr. 
Sharpe’s objection to it, viz. that we cannot say the intellect is 
in the intellect, he says, “ This remark is obviously frivolous; for 
the faculties of the understanding (which are what the argument 
against the Sensational School requires us to reserve) may be 
said to be in the understanding with as much justice as we may 
assert that there are in it the impressions derived from sense.” 
We submit that the “ faculties ” of the understanding are not 
* all that must be reserved for the argument against the Sensa¬ 
tional School ” (if.the Lockeists be meant, and to them only did 


524 


LOCKE. 


Leibnitz address himself), for the simple reason that the faculties 
never were denied.* Opponents have attributed such a notion 
to Locke’s school; no member of that school ever proposed it. 
The question never was, Have ive an Understanding , and has 
that Understanding certain Faculties ? No ; the question simply 
was— What is the origin of our Ideas: are they partly innate 
and partly acquired , or are they wholly acquired , and if so , is 
Sense the sole inlet ? To this plain question some replied plainly, 
“Sense is the origin of all our ideas.” Locke replied, “Sense 
and Reflection are the sources of all our ideas.” Leibnitz re¬ 
plied, “ There is nothing in the intellect which was not previously 
in the sense; except the intellect itself:” which latter remark is 
altogether beside the question. And yet this remark has called 
forth many pages of laudatory declamation; pages in which 
Locke is cast into the background, and charged with having 
overlooked the important fact that man has an intellect as well 
as senses. Thi% notion, once started, continued its triumphant 
course. Men are for the most part like sheep, who always follow 
the bell-wether: what one boldly asserts, another echoes boldly; 
a third transmits it to a fourth, and the assertion becomes con¬ 
solidated into a traditional judgment. Some one more serious, 
or more independent than the rest, looks into the matter, sees 
an error, exposes it; but tradition rolls on its unimpeded course. 
I do not expect to shake the traditional error respecting Locke; 
I was bound, however, to signalize it. Locke doeswoi derive all 
our knowledge from sensation; Leibnitz has not made any ad¬ 
dition by his too famous nisi ipse intellectus.\ 

By Sensation, Locke understands the simple operation of exter- 


* Locke often speaks of the operations of tlie mind as proceeding from 
powers intrinsical and proper to itself. He says also : “ Thus the first capacity 
of human intellect is, that the mind is fitted to receive the impressions made 
on it; either through the senses by outward objects, or by its own operations 
when it reflects on them.' 1 ' 1 — Essay , b. ii. c. i. § 24. 

+ Leibnitz himself says, when making the distinction, “ Cela c’accorde 
assez avec votre auteur de l’Essai, que cherche une bonne partie des Idces 
dans la reflexion de l’esprit sur sa propre nature .”—Eauveavx Essais, ii. c. i 



THE ORIGIN OF OUR IDEAS. 


525 


nal objects through the senses. The mind is herein wholly pas¬ 
sive. The senses, therefore, may be said to furnish the mind 
with one portion of its materials. By Reflection he understands 
that internal sense, by means of which the mind observes its own 
operations. This furnishes the second and last portion of the 
materials out of which the mind frames knowledge. “ If it shall 
be demanded,” he says, “ when a man begins to have any ideas, 
I think the true answer is, when he first has any sensation. For 
since there appear not to be any ideas in the mind before the 
senses have conveyed any in, I conceive that ideas in the under¬ 
standing are coeval with sensation.” This is making a decisive 
stand against the upholders of innate ideas; but it is a very rude 
and incomplete view. 

Deeply considered, not only are ideas not coeval with sensa¬ 
tions, but sensations themselves are not coeval with the opera¬ 
tion of external objects on our organs. Our senses have to be 
educated , i. e. to be drawn out, developed. We have to learn to 
see, to hear, and to touch. ■ Light strikes on the infant retina, 
waves of air pulsate on the infant tympanum : but these as yet 
produce neither sight nor hearing: they are only the prepara¬ 
tions for sight and hearing. Many hundred repetitions are 
necessary before what w r e call a sensation ( i . e. a distinct feeling 
corresponding to that which the object will always produce upon 
the developed sense) can be produced. Many sensations are 
necessary to produce a perception: a perception is a cluster of 
sensations with an ideal element added. On the educated 
Sense objects act so as instantaneously to produce what we call 
their sensations; on the uneducated Sense they act only so as to 
produce a vague impression, which becomes more and more defi¬ 
nite by repetition.* 

Plato finely compares the soul to a book, of which the seuses 


* See this growth of sensation treated in detail in Beneke’s Lehrluch 
der Psychologie. See also the chapters on Hartley and Darwin far¬ 
ther on. 



5*26 


LOCKE. 


are the scribes.* Accepting this comparison, writing is only pos¬ 
sible after a series of tentatives; the hand must practise, before it 
can steady itself sufficiently to trace letters; so also must the 
senses learn by repetition to trace intelligible figures on the 
tabula rasa of the mind. 

Locke continues his account of the origin of all our knowledge 
thus: “ In time the mind comes to reflect on its own operations 
about the ideas got by sensation, and thereby stores itself with a 
new set of ideas, which I call ideas of reflection. These are the 
impressions which are made on our senses by outward objects 
that are extrinsical to the mind, and its own operations proceed¬ 
ing from powers intrinsical and proper to itself; which when 
reflected ou by itself, becoming also objects of its contemplation, 
are, as I have said, the original of all knowledge. Thus the first 
capacity of the human intellect is, that the mind is fitted to re¬ 
ceive the impressions made on it; either through the senses by 
outward objects, or by its own operations when it reflects on 
them. This is the first step that a man makes towards the dis¬ 
covery of and the groundwork whereon to build all those notions 
which ever he shall have naturally in this world. All those 
sublime thoughts which tower above the clouds, and reach as 
high as heaven itself, take their rise and footing here: in all that 
good extent wherein the mind wanders, in those remote specu¬ 
lations it may seem to be elevated with, it stirs not one jot 
beyond those ideas which sense or reflection have offered for its 
contemplation.” 

The close of this passage is an answer to the ontologists; not 
one, however, which they will accept. They deny that sensation 
aud reflection are the only sources of materials. But we will 
continue to hear Locke: “When the understanding is once 
stored with these simple ideas, it has the power to repeat, com¬ 
pare, and unite them, even to an almost infinite variety, and so 


* Philebus, p. 192. Plato's words are not given in the text, but the 
cense is. 



ELEMENTS OF IDEALISM AND SKEPTICISM IN LOCKE. 527 


can make at pleasure new complex ideas. But it is not in the 
power of the most exalted wit, or enlarged understanding, by 
any quickness or variety of thought, to invent or frame one new 
simple idea in the mind not taken in by the ways aforementioned.” 

This is very explicit—and, w T e believe, very true. If true, 
what becomes of Philosophy ? 

§ V. Elements of Idealism and Skepticism in Locke. 

The passage last quoted naturally leads us to consider Locke’s 
position in the great debate carried on respecting our knowledge 
of things per se. 

Can we know things as they are ? Descartes and his followers 
suppose that we can : their criterion is the clearness and distinct¬ 
ness of ideas. Locke admirably said, “ Distinct ideas of the 
several sorts of bodies that fall under the examination of our 
senses, perhaps we may have; but adequate ideas I suspect we 
have not of any one amongst them.” Our ideas, however clear, 
are never adequate; they are subjective . But Locke only went 
half-way towards the conception of knowledge as purely subjec¬ 
tive. He did not think that all our ideas were images, copies 
of external objects; but he expressly taught that our ideas of 
what he calls primary qualities , are resemblances of what really 
exist in bodies; adding, that “ the ideas produced in us by second¬ 
ary qualities have no resemblance of them at all. There is 
nothing like our ideas existing in the bodies themselves. They 
are, in the bodies we denominate from them, only a power to 
produce those sensations in ws.” 

It is remarkable that the last sentence did not lead him to the 
conclusion that all the qualities which we perceive in bodies are 
but the powers to produce sensations in us; and that it is we 
who attribute to the causes of these sensations a form analogous 
to their effects. He himself warned us “ that so we may not 
think (as perhaps usually is done) that they (ideas) are exactly 
the images and resemblances of something inherent in the subject; 
most of those of sensation being in the mind no more the like • 


523 


LOCKE. 


ness of something existing without us, than the names that stand 
for them are likenesses of our ideas, "which, yet upon hearing* they 
are apt to excite in us.” And elsewhere, “ It being no more ini 
possible to conceive that God should annex such ideas to such 
motions (i. e. the motions of objects affecting the senses) with 
which they have no similitude, than that he should annex the 
idea of pain to the motion of a piece of steel dividing our flesh, 
with which that idea hath no resemblance.” 

From these passages it will be seen how clearly Locke under¬ 
stood the subjective nature of one portion of our knowledge. 
He did not carry out the application of his principles to primary 
qualities, owing, perhaps, to inveterate association having too 
firmly established the contrary in his mind. Every one is willing 
to admit that color, light, heat, perfume, taste, etc., are not qual¬ 
ities in the bodies which produce in us those effects, but simply 
conditions of our sensibility, when placed in certain relations with 
certain bodies. But few are willing to admit—indeed only phi¬ 
losophers (accustomed as they are to undo their constant associ¬ 
ations) can conceive the primary qualities, viz. extension, solidity, 
motion, and number, to be otherwise than real qualities of bodies 
—copies of which are impressed upon us by the relation in which 
we stand to the bodies. And yet these qualities are no less sub¬ 
jective than the former. They do not belong at all to bodies, 
except as powers to produce in us the sensations. They are de¬ 
monstrably as much the effects produced in us by objects, as the 
secondary qualities are; and the latter every one admits to be 
the effects, and not copies. Wherein lies the difference ? wherein 
the difficulty of conceiving primary qualities not to belong to 
bodies ? In this : the primary qualities are the invariable condi¬ 
tions of sensation. The secondary qualities are the variable con¬ 
ditions. We can have no perception of a body that is not ex¬ 
tended, that is not solid (or the reverse), that is not simple or 
complex (number), that is not in motion or rest. These are in¬ 
variable conditions. But this body is not necessarily of any 
particular color, taste, scent, heat, or smoothness; it may be color- 


ELEMENTS OF IDEALISM AND SKEPTICISM IN LOCKE. 520 


/8SS, tasteless, scentless. These secondary qualities are all vari¬ 
able. Consequently the one set, being invariable , have occasioned 
indissoluble associations in our minds, so that it is not only ira- 
possible for us to imagine a body, without at the same time im¬ 
agining it as endowed with these primary qualities; but also we 
are irresistibly led to believe that the bodies we perceive do cer¬ 
tainly possess those qualities quite independently of us. Hence 
it has been said that the Creator himself could not make a body 
without extension: for such a body is impossible. The phrase 
should be, “such a body it is impossible for us to conceive .” But 
our indissoluble associations are no standards of reality. 

That we cannot conceive body without extension is true ; but 
that, because we cannot conceive it, the contrary must be false, 
is preposterous. All our assertion in this matter can amount to 
is, that knowledge must be subordinate to the conditions of our 
nature. These conditions are not conditions of things, but of 
our organizations. If we had been so constituted as that all 
bodies should affect us with a sensible degree of warmth, we 
should have been irresistibly led to conclude that warmth was a 
quality inherent in body; but because warmth varies with dif¬ 
ferent bodies and at different times, there is no indissoluble asso¬ 
ciation formed. And so of the rest. 

To return to Locke: he has very well stated the nature of 
our knowledge of external things, though he excepts primary 
qualities. “It is evident,” he says, “that the bulk, figure, and 
motion of several bodies about us, produce in us several sen¬ 
sations, as of colors, sounds, tastes, smells, pleasure and pain, 
etc. These mechanical affections of bodies having no affinity at 
all with those ideas they produce in us (there being no conceiv¬ 
able connection between any impulse of any sort of body 
and any perception of a color or smell which we find in our 
minds) we can have no distinct knowledge of such operations be¬ 
yond our experience / and can reason about them no otherwise 
than as the effects produced by an infinitely wise Agent, which 
perfectly surpass our comprehensions.” 


530 


LOCKE. 


He shortly after says, “ The things that, as far as our observa¬ 
tion reaches, we constantly find to proceed regularly, we may 
conclude do act by a law set them ; but yet by a law that we 
kuow not: whereby, though causes w r ork steadily, and effects 
constantly flow from them, yet their connections and dependencies 
being not discoverable in our ideas, we can have but an experimen¬ 
tal knowledge of them? Here we have Hume’s doctrine of 
Causation anticipated. 

To prove the subjective nature of our knowledge is but one 
step towards the great question. The second step, which it is 
vulgarly supposed w r as only taken by Berkeley and Hume, was 
also taken by Locke. Hear him: “ Since the mind in all its 
thoughts and reasonings hath no other immediate object but its 
own ideas, which it alone does or can contemplate, it is evident 
that our knowledge is only conversant about them. Knowledge, 
then, seems to me nothing but the perception of the connection 
and agreement, or disagreement and repugnancy, of any one of 
our ideas.” 

This is the great stronghold of Idealism and Skepticism. 
Locke foresaw the use wdiich would be made of it; and he 
stated the problem w r ith remarkable precision. “ It is evident 
that the mind knows not things immediately, but only by the 
intervention of ideas it has of them. Our knowledge therefore 
.s real, only so far as there is a conformity between our ideas and 
the reality of things. But what shall be here the criterion ? 
How shall the mind , when it perceives nothing but its oivn ideas, 
know that they agree with the things themselves /” 

Thus has he stated the problem which was solved by Idealism 
on the one hand, and by Skepticism on the other. Let us see 
how he will solve it. There are two sorts of ideas, he says, the 
simple and the complex; or, to use more modern language, per¬ 
ceptions and conceptions. The first “must necessarily be the 
product of things operating on the mind in a natural way, and 
producing those perceptions which by the wisdom and will of 
our Maker they are ordained and adapted to. From whence it 


ELEMENTS OF IDEALISM AND SKEPTICISM IN LOCKE. 531 


follows that simple ideas are not fictions of our fancies, but the 
natural and regular productions of things without us really oper¬ 
ating upon us ; and so carry with them all the conformity which 
is intended , or which our state requires: for they represent 
things to us under those appearances which they are fitted to 
produce in ws.” 

This leaves the question of Idealism unanswered, though it 
cuts the Gordian knot of Skepticism. It is a plain and explicit 
avowal of the subjectivity of our knowledge; of the impossi¬ 
bility of our ever transcending the sphere of our consciousness 
and penetrating into the essences of things. Complex ideas 
being made out of simple ideas, we need not examine their pre¬ 
tensions to infallibility. All human certainty is therefore only a 
relative certainty. Ideas may be true for us, without being at 
all true when considered absolutely. Such is Locke’s position. 
He stands upon a ledge of rock between tw r o yawning abysses. 
He will stand there, and proceed no further. Why should he 
move when he knows that a single step will precipitate him 
into some fathomless gulf? No; he is content with his ledge 
of rock. “ The notice we have by our senses,” he says, “of the 
existence of things without us, though it be not altogether so 
certain as our intuitive knowledge or the deductions of our rea¬ 
son, employed about the clear, abstract ideas of our own minds ; 
yet it is an assurance that deserves the name of knowledge. If 
we persuade ourselves that our faculties act and inform us right 
concerning the existence of those objects that affect them, it 
cannot pass for an ill-grounded confidence; for I think nobody 
can in earnest be so skeptical as to be uncertain of the existence 
of those which he sees and feels. At least he that can doubt 
so far (whatever he may have with his own thoughts) will never 
have any controversy with me, since he can never be sure I 
say anv thing contrary to his own opinions. As to myself, I 
think God has given me assurance enough as to the existence of 
things without me; since by their different application I can 
produce in myself both pleasure and pain, which is one great 
37 


532 


LOCKE. 


concernment of my present state. We cannot act by any thing 
but our faculties; nor talk of knowledge but by the help of 
those faculties which are fitted to apprehend even what knowl¬ 
edge is.” 

Again, anticipating the objection that “ all we see, hear, feel, 
and taste, think and do, during our whole being, is but the 
series and deluding appearances of a long dream, and therefore 
our knowledge of any thing be questioned ; I must desire him to 
consider that if all be a dream, then he doth but dream that 
makes the question; and so it is not much matter that a waking 
man should answer him. But yet, if he pleases, he may dream that 
I make him this answer, That the certainty of things existing in 
in rerum natura , when we have the testimony of our senses for it, 
is not only as great as our frame can attain to , but as our con¬ 
dition needs.” This leaves Idealism unanswered ; but it pro¬ 
nounces Skepticism to be frivolous : “ for our faculties,” he con¬ 
tinues, “ being not suited to the full extent of being, nor to a per¬ 
fect, clear, comprehensive knowledge of things free from all doubt 
and scruple, but to the preservation of us, in whom they are, 
and accommodated to the use of life; they serve our purpose 
well enough, if they will but give us certain notice of those 
things which are convenient or inconvenient to us.” 

That this is very good common-sense every one will admit. 
But it is no ansiver to Skepticism. Hume, as we shall see here¬ 
after, proclaimed the very same opinions: but the difference be¬ 
tween him and Locke was, that he knew such opinions had no 
influence whatever upon the philosophical question, but simply 
upon the practical affairs of life; whereas Locke, contenting 
himself with the practical, disdained to answer the philosophical 
question.* 

We may sum up the contents of this Section by saying that 
Locke distinctly enough foresaw the Idealistic and Skeptical 

* Dr. Beid conjectures that “ Locke had a glimpse of the system which 
Berkeley afterwards advanced, though he thought proper to suppress it 
within his own breast.” Not to suppress, but to disdain it. 



locke's critics. 


533 


arguments which might be drawn from his principles. He did not 
draw them, because he thought them frivolous. Aware that all 
human certitude could only be relative certitude—that human 
knowledge could never embrace the nature of things, but only 
the nature of their effects on us—he was content with that 
amount of truth, and “ sat down in quiet ignorance of those 
things which are beyond the reach of our capacities.” The 
grand aim of the Essay was to prove that all knowledge is 
founded on experience. That proved, he was aware that Expe¬ 
rience never could be other than relative—it could only be our 
Experience of things; and our Experience could be no absolute 
standard; it could only be a standard for us. 

§ VI. Locke’s Critics. 

We cannot leave the great Englishman without adverting to 
the tone adopted by many of his critics. This tone has been 
any thing but considerate. The sincerest and least dogmatic of 
thinkers has, for the most part, met with insincere and shallow 
criticism. 

That men should misrepresent Spinoza, Hobbes, or Hume, is 
intelligible enough; men are frightened, and in their terror ex¬ 
aggerate and distort what they see. That they should misrep¬ 
resent Kant, Fichte, or Hegel, is also intelligible; the remote¬ 
ness of the speculations, and the difficulty of the language, are 
sufficient excuses. But that they should misrepresent Locke is 
wholly inexcusable. He was neither an audacious speculator, 
nor a cloudy writer. His fault was that he spoke plainly and 
honestly. He sought the truth ; he did not wish to mystify any 
one. He endeavored to explain the Chemistry of the Mind (if 
the metaphor be permissible), renouncing the vague,. futile 
dreams of Alchemy. All those men who still seek to penetrate 
impenetrable mysteries, and refuse to acknowledge the limits of 
man’s intelligence, treat Locke with the same superb disdain as 
the ambitious alchemists treated the early chemists. The tone 
.n which most modern Frenchmen and Germans speak of Locke 


534 


LOCKE. 


is painful; the tone in which many Englishmen speak of him is 
disgraceful. To point out any error is honorable ; but to ac¬ 
cuse him of errors which are not to be found in his work, to 
interpret his language according to your views, and then accuse 
him of inconsistency and superficiality; to speak of him with 
superciliousness, as if he were some respectable but short-sighted 
gentleman dabbling with philosophy, and not one of the great 
benefactors of mankind, deserves the severest reprobation.* 

There is no excuse for not understanding Locke. If his lan- 
guage be occasionally loose and wavering, his meaning is always 
to be gathered from the context. He had not the lucidity of 
Descartes or Hobbes; but he was most anxious to make himself 
intelligible, and to this end he varied his expressions, and stated 
his meaning in a variety of forms. He must not be taken liter¬ 
ally. No single passage is to be relied on, unless it be also 
borne out by the whole tenor of his speculations. Any person 
merely “ dipping into ” the Essay, will find passages which seem 
very contradictory; any person carefully reading it through will 
find all clear and coherent. 

The most considerable of Locke’s modern critics is Victor 
Cousin. He has undertaken an examination and refutation of 
all Locke’s important positions. The eminence of his name and 
the popular style of his lectures have given great importance to 
his criticism ; but if we are to speak out our opinion frankly, we 
must characterize this criticism as very unfair, and extremely 
shallow. We cannot here examine his examination: a volume 
would not suffice to expose all his errors. Let one example of 
his unfairness, and one of his shallowness, suffice. 

Speaking of the principle of reflection, he says: “ In the first 
place, remark that Locke here evidently confounds reflection 
with consciousness. Reflection, strictly speaking, is doubtless a 
faculty analogous to consciousness, but distinct from it, and which 


* On this point, consult Dr. Vaughan’s vigorous defence of Locke against 
his critics in the Essays on History , Philosophy, etc. 




535 


locke’s critics. 

more particularly belongs to philosophers, whereas consciousness 
belongs to every man.” 

We answer, that in the first place, so far from its being evi¬ 
dent that Locke confounds reflection with consciousness, his 
whole Essay proves the contrary. In the second place, M. 
Cousin, using the word reflection in a peculiar sense (viz. as tan¬ 
tamount to speculation), forces that sense upon Locke, and thus 
makes the contradiction ! If M. Cousin had interpreted Locke 
fairly, he could never have thus “ caught him on the hip.” 

It is quite true that in the passage quoted by M. Cousin, the 
faculty of reflection is limited to the operations of the mind; but, 
as we said, to pin Locke down to any one passage is unfair; and 
his whole Essay proves, in spite of some ill-worded definitions, 
that by reflection he meant very much what is usually meant by 
it, viz. the activity of the mind in combining the materials it re¬ 
ceives through sense, and becoming thus a source of ideas. 

This leads us to the second example. M. Cousin wishing to 
prove, against Locke, that we have ideas from some other source 
besides sensation and reflection, instances the idea of space, and 
examines how it was possible to obtain that idea through sensa¬ 
tion and reflection. That the idea of pure space could not have 
been obtained through the senses he seems to think is satisfac¬ 
torily proved by proving that the idea has nothing sensuous in 
it; that it could not have been obtained through reflection, 
because it has nothing to do with the operations of our under¬ 
standing, is equally evident to him. Hence, as both sources fail, 
he pronounces Locke’s account of the origin of our knowledge 
“ incomplete and vicious.” 

This argument, which extends to several pages, is deemed by 
M. Cousin triumphant. Locke indeed says that “ we get the idea 
of space both by our sight and touch.” Any honest inquirer 
would never quibble upon this—would never suppose Locke 
meant to say that space is a sensation. He would understand that 
Locke meant to say, “the idea of space is an abstraction: the 
primary materials are obtained through our touch and sight.’ 


536 


LOCKE. 


Locke did not anticipate any quibbling objection, so did not 
guard against it; but in his explanation of our idea of substance 
he has given an analogous case; although his antagonists have 
also frequently objected that the idea of substance never could 
have been obtained through sense. It has been thought an irre¬ 
sistible argument against Locke’s theory : the very fact that we 
have an idea of substance is supposed to be sufficient proof of 
some other source of knowledge than sensation and reflection. 
This is an example of how carelessly Locke has been read. He 
expressly tells us, in more places than one, that the idea of sub¬ 
stance (and by idea he does not here mean image, but a thought) 
is an inference grounded upon our experience of external things. 
True it is that we perceive nothing but phenomena, but our 
minds are so constituted that we are forced to suppose these 
phenomena have substances lying underneath them. 

“ If any one will examine himself,” he says, “ concerning his 
notion of pure substance in general, he will find he has no other 
idea of it at all, but only a supposition of he knows not what 
support of such qualities which are capable of producing simple 
ideas in us, which qualities are commonly called accidents. If 
any one should be asked what is the subject wherein color or 
weight inheres, he would have nothing to say but the solid ex¬ 
tended parts; and if he were demanded what is it that solidity 
and extension inhere in, he would not be in a much better case 
than the Indian who, saying that the world was supported - by a 
great elephant, was asked what the elephant rested on, to which 
his answer was, A great tortoise; but being again pressed to 
know what gave support to the great broad-backed tortoise, re¬ 
plied, Something, he knew not what.” 

The same course of argument will apply to space. Space is 
an idea suggested by place, which is surely one derived from the 
senses; but M. Cousin declaims away at a great rate, and brings 
forward many arguments and illustrations, all utterly trivial, to 
show that the idea of space could never have been a sensation. 
A little more attention in reading the author he attacks would 


locke’s critics. 


537 


have saved him all this trouble. Locke never for an instant 
supposed that the idea of space could have been a sensation: on 
the fact that it could not, he grounds his position that the idea 
is vague, and is a mere “ supposition.” 

The German critics we may pass over in silence. The whole 
tenor of their speculations unfits them for judging Locke. But 
let us hear an Englishman, who is also an historian :—“ We need 
not spend much time in pointing out the inconsistencies into 
which Locke fell,” says Dr. Whewell, “ as all must fall into in¬ 
consistencies who recognize no source of knowledge except the 
senses.” Let us remark, in the first place, that it is surely a 
questionable procedure thus to pass over so great a man as 
Locke, whose influence has been so general and lasting, and 
whose “inconsistencies” it behooved Dr. Whewell, more than 
most men, to refute, inasmuch as Locke’s principles refute his 
whole philosophy. Secondly, it is a misrepresentation to assert 
Locke’s having recognized “ no source of knowledge except the 
senses.” On reconsideration he must admit that Locke did 
recognize another source. “ Thus he maintains,” continues Dr. 
Whewell, “ that our idea of space is derived from the senses of 
sight aud touch—our idea of solidity from the touch alone. 
Our notion of substance is an unknown support of unknown 
qualities, and is illustrated by the Indian fable of the tortoise 
which supports the elephant which supports the world.” 

Space we have already considered in answering M. Cousin. 
As to solidity, if the idea be not derived from the sensation, from 
whence is it derived ? And as to substance, we must here again 
notice a misrepresentation of Locke, who does not define it as 
“ an unknown support of unknown qualities,” but as an unknown 
support of known qualities: from our knowledge of the qualities 
we infer the existence of some substratum in which they inhere. 
We are, with respect to substance, somewhat in the condition of 
a blind man, who, whenever he moved in a certain direction, 
should receive a blow from some revolving wheel. Although 
uuable to see the wheel, and so understand the cause of the pain 


53S LOCKE. 

lie received, lie would not hesitate to attribute that cause to 
something without him. All he could ever know, unassisted, 
would be the fact of his being struck when he moved in a cer¬ 
tain direction; he could have no other knowledge of the wheel, 
yet he would be quite certain that there was something besides his 
pain, and that unknown something -would stand to him in a rela¬ 
tion somewhat similar to that in which the unknown support 
of known accidents of bodies stands to us. This is Locke’s 
meaning. 

“ Our notion of power or cause,” continues the historian, “ is 
in like manner got from the senses; and yet, though these ideas 
are thus mere fragments of our experience, Locke does not hesi¬ 
tate to ascribe to them necessity and universality when they 
occur in propositions. Thus he maintains the necessary truth of 
geometrical properties; he asserts that the resistance arising from 
solidity is absolutely insurmountable; he conceives that nothing 
short of Omnipotence can annihilate a particle of matter; and 
he has no misgivings in arguing upon the axiom that every 
thing must have a cause. He does not perceive that upon his 
own account of the origin of our knowledge, we can have no 
right to make any of these assertions. If our knowledge of the 
truths which concern the external world were wholly derived 
from experience, all that we could venture to say would be, that 
geometrical properties of figures are true as far as we have tried 
them ; that we have seen no example of a solid body being re¬ 
duced to occupy less space by pressure, or of a material substance 
annihilated by natural means; and that, wherever we have exam¬ 
ined, we have found that every change has had a cause.” 

This is only one among many instances of Dr. Whewell’s want 
of accurate interpretation of Locke. The fallacy on which his 
argument rests, we shall examine at some length when we come 
to treat of Kant. Meanwhile let the following passage prove 
that he has misconceived Locke, who certainly did not hesitate 
to ascribe necessity and universality to certain ideas when they 
‘occur in propositions,” but who very clearly explained the na- 


locke’s critics. 


539 


ture of this necessity in a masterly passage: ‘‘There is one sort 
of propositions concerning the existence of any thing answerable 
to such an idea; as having the idea of an elephant, phoenix, mo¬ 
tion, or angle, in my mind, the first and natural inquiry is, 
whether such a thing does anywhere exist. And this knowledge 
is only of particulars. No existence of any thing without us, 
except God, can certainly be known further than our seuses in¬ 
form us. 

“ There is another sort of propositions, wherein is expressed 
the agreement or disagreement of our abstract ideas and their 
olependence on one another. Such jwopositions may be universal 
and certain . So, having the idea of God and of myself, of fear 
and obedience, I cannot but be sure that God is to be feared and 
obeyed by me: and this proposition will be certain concerning 
man iu general, if I have made an abstract idea of such species 
whereof I am one particular. But yet this proposition, how cer¬ 
tain soever, that men ought to fear and obey God, proves not to 
me the existence of men in the world, but will be true of all 
such creatures wherever they do exist: which certainty of such 
general propositions depends on the agreement or disagreement 
to be discovered in those abstract ideas. In the former case our 
knowledge is the consequence of the existence of things pro¬ 
ducing ideas in our minds by our senses; in the latter, knowl¬ 
edge is the consequence of the ideas (be they what they will) 
that are in our minds producing their general certain proposi¬ 
tions. 

“Many of these are called ceternce veritates; and all of them 
indeed are so; not from being written in the minds of all men, 
or that they were any of them propositions in any one’s mind 
till he, having got the abstract ideas, joined or separated them 
by affirmation or negation. But wheresoever we can suppose 
such a creature as man is, .endowed with such faculties, and 
thereby furnished with such ideas as we have, we must conclude 
he must needs, when he applies his thoughts to the consideration 
of his ideas, know the truth of certain propositions that will arise 


540 


LOCKE. 


from the agreement or disagreement 'which he will perceive in 
his own ideas. Such propositions therefore are called eternal 
truths, not because they are eternal propositions actually formed 
and antecedent to the understanding that makes them ; nor be¬ 
cause they are imprinted on the mind from any patterns that 
are anywhere of them out of the mind and existed before ; but 
because being once made about abstract ideas so as to be true, 
they will, whenever they can be supposed to be made again at 
any time by a mind having those ideas, always actually be true.”* 
This passage is sufficient to exonerate him from the charge of 
inconsistency; sufficient also, we believe, to show the error of 
Dr. Whewell’s own conception of the necessity of certain truths. 

The foregoing are samples of the style in which the great mas¬ 
ter of Psychology is spoken of by his most modern critics. Let 
them be sufficient warning to the reader of what he is to expect 
from the partisans of the reaction against Locke, and his follow¬ 
ers ; and stimulate him to the careful study of that author who 
“ professes no more than to lay down, candidly and freely, his 
own conjectures concerning a subject lying somewhat in the 
dark, without any other design than an unbiased inquiry after 
truth.” 


* Book iv. ch. xi. §§ 13, 14. 



CHAPTER III. 


LEIBNITZ. 

Leibnitz was the first and last of Locke’s great critics. He 
lmd studied the Essay on the Human Understanding , though he 
could not accept its principles. His arguments have formed the 
staple of objection against Locke ; and from him they come with 
peculiar force, because they are parts of his system. 

Leibnitz has a great reputation in philosophy and mathemat¬ 
ics ; but the nature of this work forbids our entering into any 
detailed examination of his claims, inasmuch as he introduced no 
new ideas, no new extension of old methods. All that can here 
be done is to indicate the line of opposition which he took with 
respect to Locke’s theory of the origin of Knowledge. 

At first he answered Locke in a few paragraphs of a somewhat 
supercilious tone. He evidently looked upon the Essay as not 
destined to achieve any influential reputation.* This opinion he 
lived to alter; and in his Nouveaux Essais sur VEntendement 
Humain , he brought all his forces to bear upon the subject; he 
grappled with the Essay , and disputed the ground with it inch 
by inch. This remarkable work was not published till many 
years after his death, and is not included in M. Dutens’ edition. 
Dugald Stewart was not aware of its existence ; and this fact will 
explain a passage in his Dissertation , "where he says that Leib¬ 
nitz always speaks coldly of Locke’s Essay. Leibnitz does so in 
his earlier works; but in the New Essays he treats his great ad¬ 
versary with due respect; and in the Preface, speaks of him with 
eulogy. “The Essay concerning Human Understanding, writ- 

* See Reflexions sur VEssai de J/. Locke, in the Recueil of Desmaizeaux, 
vol. ii. 



542 


LEIBNITZ. 


ten by an illustrious Englishman, being one of the finest and 
most esteemed works of our time, I have resolved to make some 
comments on it. . . . Thus I shall procure a favorable introduc¬ 
tion for my thoughts by placing them in such good company. 

. . It is true that I am often of a different opinion; but so far 
from detracting on that account from the merit of this celebrated 
writer, that I do him justice in making known in what and 
wherefore I differ from mm, when I judge it necessary to pre¬ 
vent his authority from prevailing over reason on some important 
points. In fact, although the author of the Essay says a thou¬ 
sand things which I must applaud, yet our systems greatly differ. 
His has greater affinity to that of Aristotle,—mine, to that of 
Plato.” This is the spirit in which the Homeric heroes regard 
their adversaries; an interchange of admiration for each other’s 
prowess does not deaden one of their blows, but it makes the 
combat more dignified. 

Leibnitz belonged to the Cartesians; but he also mingled with 
the doctrines of Descartes certain ideas which he had gathered 
from his commerce with antiquity. Plato, and Democritus espe¬ 
cially, influenced him. To a mind thus furnished, the doctrines 
of Locke must needs have been unwelcome; indeed they could 
not be expected to gain admission. Moreover, as F. Schlegel 
well observed, every man is born either a Platonist or an Aris¬ 
totelian.* Leibnitz and Locke were examples of this antago¬ 
nism : “ Our differences,” says Leibnitz, “ are important. The 
question between us is whether the soul in itself is entirely empty, 
like tablets upon which nothing has been written (tabula rasa) } 
according to Aristotle and the author of the Essay; and whether 
all that is there traced comes wholly from the senses and experi¬ 
ence ; or whether the soul originally contains the principles of 
several notions and doctrines, which the external objects only 
awaken on occasions, as I believe with Plato.” 


* Coleridge used to pass off this aphorism as his own. It is to be found 
however in Schlegel’s Gesc/dchte der Literatur . 



LEIBNITZ. 


543 


The nature of the problem is well stated here; and Leibnitz 
sides with Plato in his solution of it. The main arguments by 
which he supports his view are those so often since repeated of 
the Universality and Necessity of certain truths, and of the in¬ 
capacity of experience to furnish us with any thing beyond a 
knowledge of individual cases. “ For if any event can be foreseen 
before it has been tried, it is manifest that we contribute some¬ 
thing for our own parts.” Ergo , mere experience, it is argued, 
does not constitute all our knowledge. “ The senses, although 
necessary for all actual knowledge, are not sufficient to give us all 
of it; since the senses never can give but examples, that is to say 
particular or individual truths. But all the examples which con¬ 
firm a general truth, however numerous, do not suffice to establish 
the universal necessity of that truth; for it does not follow that 
that which has once occurred will always occur in the same way.” 

Leibnitz continues : “ Whence it appears that necessary truths, 
such as we find in mathematics, and particularly in arithmetic 
and geometry, must have principles of which the proof does not 
depend upon examples, nor consequently upon the senses, al¬ 
though without the senses one would never have thought of 
them. So also logic, metaphysics, and morals are full of such 
truths, and consequently their proofs can only come from those 
internal principles which are called innate .” 

Locke would perfectly have agreed with these premises, but 
the conclusion he would rightly have rejected. That the senses 
alone could not furnish us with any general truth, he taught as 
expressly as Leibnitz did ; but this in no way affects his system, 
for he did not build his system upon the senses alone. 

Leibnitz however seems to have been misled by Locke’s lan¬ 
guage in the first definition of Reflection ; for he says, “ Perhaps 
the opinions of our able author are not so far from mine as 
they appear to be. For after having employed the whole of his 
first book against innate knowledge taken in a certain sense, he 
acknowledges in the beo*innin<r of the second that there are 
ideas which do not originate from the senses, but arise from Pie- 


5Ld 


LEIBNITZ. 


flection. Now reflection is nothing but attention to that which 
passes within us; and the senses do not convey to us what we 
already p',<ssess within ourselves. Can it then be denied that 
there is much innate in the mind ?” 

The passage in italics is a curious instance of how the mind, 
preoccupied with its own opinions, sees them reflected in the 
expressions of others. Leibnitz here assumes the very point at 
issue ; assumes that the mind has innate ideas which the senses 
cannot convey to it; and this assumption he supposes to be 
contained in Locke’s words. Locke taught precisely the con¬ 
trary. “The mind is itself innate,” continues Leibnitz—(to 
which we reiterate our objection: innate in what? In itself? 
or in us? To say that it is innate in itself is a quibble; that it 
is innate in us is a displacement of the question : no one ever 
doubted that the mind of man was born in man—born with 
man; the question was, Are there any ideas born with the 
mind, or are all ideas acquired by the mind ?) “ The mind is 

itself innate, and there are included in it substance, duration, 
change, action, perception, pleasure, and a thousand other ob¬ 
jects of our intellectual ideas. ... I have used the comparison 
of a block of marble which has certain veins in it, rather than 
a plain piece of marble such as the philosophers call tabula rasa ; 
because if the soul resembled tablets unwritten on, truths would 
be in us like the figure of Hercules in the block of marble, 
when that marble may receive indifferently one figure or another. 
But if there are veins in the marble which mark the figure of 
Hercules rather than any other figure, that marble would be 
more determinate, and the figure of Hercules would in some 
way be innate, although labor would be necessary to discover 
the veins, and to free them from their envelopment of marble. 
Thus are ideas and truths innate in us.” 

This is an ingenious statement of the theory: unfortunately 
Tor it, the very existence of these veins in the marble is an as¬ 
sumption, and an assumption not made for the facilitating of 
inquiry, but simply for the proof of the theory assumed ; it is 


LEIBNITZ. 


545 


an hypothesis framed for the sake of explaining—what?—the 
hypotheses itself! Ideas are first assumed to be innate; to 
prove this assumption, another assumption—the existence of 
innate ideas—is made; and the theory is complete. 

The real force of Leibnitz’s theory lies in his distinction be¬ 
tween contingent and necessary truths, and in his position that 
experience alone could never furnish us with necessary truths. 
The examination of this we must delay till we come to Kant. 

A brief view of the celebrated scheme of Pre-established Har¬ 
mony will be all that is necessary to complete what we have 
here to say of Leibnitz. It was in those days an axiom univer¬ 
sally admitted that “Like could only act upon Like.” The 
question then arose: how does body act upon mind; how does 
mind act upon body ? The two w r ere utterly unlike: how 
could they act upon each other? In other words: how is Per¬ 
ception possible ? All the ordinary explanations of Perception 
were miserable failures. If the mind perceives copies of things, 
how are these copies transmitted ? Effluvia, eidola, images, motions 
in spirits, etc., were not only hypotheses, but hypotheses which 
bore no examination: they did not get rid of the difficulty of 
two unlike substances acting upon each other. 

Leibnitz borrowed this hypothesis from Spinoza—whom, by 
the way, he always abuses: The human mind and the human 
body are two independent but corresponding machines. They 
are so adjusted that they are like two unconnected clocks con¬ 
structed so that at the same instant one should strike the hour 
and the other point it. “ I cannot help coming to this notion,” 
he says, “ that God created the soul in such a manner at first, 
that it should represent within itself all the simultaneous changes 
in the body; and that he has made the body also in such a 
manner as that it must of itself do what the soul wills : so that 
the laws which make the thoughts of the soul follow each other 
in regular succession, must produce images which shall be coin¬ 
cident with the impressions made by external objects upon our 
organs of sense; while the laws by which the motions ot the 


54G 


SUMMARY OF THE THIRD EPOCH. 


body follow each other are likewise so coincident with the 

J 

thoughts of the soul as to give to our volitions and actions the 
very same appearance as if the latter were really the natural 
and the necessary consequences of the former.”* 

This hypothesis has been much ridiculed by those unaware of 
the difficulties it was framed to explain. It is so repugnant how¬ 
ever to all ordinary views, that it gained few, if any, adherents. 


CHAPTER IV. 

SUMMARY OF THE THIRD EPOCH. 

The result of the speculations we have been considering—spec 
ulations begun by Gassendi'and Hobbes, and further developed 
by Locke—was to settle, for a long while, the dispute respecting 
Experience, and to give therefore a new direction to inquiry. 

It was considered as established,—1st. That we could have no 
knowledge not derived from experience. 2d. That experience 
was of two kinds, viz. of external objects and of internal opera¬ 
tions ; therefore there were two distinct sources—sensation and 
reflection. 3d. That all knowledge could only consist in the 
agreement or disagreement of our ideas. 4th. Finally, that we 
could never know things in themselves, but only things as they 
affect us; in other words, we could only know our ideas. 

To this had Locke brought Philosophy. Rightly interpreted, 
it was a denial of all Philosophy—a demonstration of its im¬ 
possibility ; but this interpretation Locke did not put upon his 
doctrines. That remained for Hume. Locke’s system produced 
three distinct systems: Berkeley’s Idealism, Hume’s Skepticism, 
and Condillac’s Sensationalism. 

* The best edition of Leibnitz’s works is that by Erdmann —Leibnitii 
Opera Philosopriica : Berlin, 1839. The Kouveaux Pssais are there for the 
second time published (the first was in Raspe’s edition, Leipzig, 1765); and 
they have been since republished in a cheap and convenient form by M 
Jacques ; Faris, 1845. 




FOURTH EPOCH. 


THE SUBJECTIVE NATURE OF KNOWLEDGE LEADS TO 

IDEALISM. 


CHAPTER I. 

BEEKELEY. 

§ I. Life of Berkeley. 

There are few men of whom England has better reason to be 
proud than of George Berkeley, Bishop of Cloyne. To extra¬ 
ordinary merits as a writer and thinker, he united the most ex¬ 
quisite purity and generosity of character; and it is still a 
moot-point whether he was greater in head or heart. 

He was born on the 12th of March, 1G84, at Kilkrin, in the 
county of Kilkenny ; and educated at Trinity College, Dublin, 
where, in 1707, he was admitted as a Fellow. In 1709, he pub¬ 
lished his New Theory of Vision , which made an epoch in 
Science; and the year after, his Principles of Human Knowledge, 
which made an epoch in Metaphysics. After this he came to 
London, where he was received with open arms. “Ancient 
learning, exact science, polished society, modern literature, and 
the fine arts, contributed to adorn and enrich the mind of this 
accomplished man. All his contemporaries agreed with the 
Satirist in ascribing 

‘ To Berkeley every virtue under heaven.’ 

Adverse factions and hostile wits concurred only in loving, admi¬ 
ring, and contributing to advance him. The severe sense of 

O' o 


38 



543 


BERKELEY. 


Swift endured his visions; the modest Addison endeavored to 
reconcile Clarke to his ambitious speculations. His character 
converted the satire of Pope into fervid praise. Even the dis¬ 
cerning, fastidious, and turbulent Atterbury said, after an inter¬ 
view with him, ‘ So much learning, so much knowledge, so much 
innocence, and such humility, I did not think had been the por¬ 
tion of any but angels, till I saw this gentleman.’ ”* 

Ilis acquaintance with the wits led to his contributing to the 
Guardian. He became chaplain and afterwards secretary to the 
Earl of Peterborough, whom he accompanied on his embassy to 
Sicily. He subsequently made the tour of Europe with Mr. 
Ashe, and at Paris met Malebranche, with whom he had an ani¬ 
mated discussion on the ideal theory. In 1724 he was made 
Dean of Derry. This was worth eleven hundred pounds a year 
to him; but he resigned it in order to dedicate his life to the 
conversion of the North American savages, stipulating only with 
the Government for a salary of one hundred pounds a year. On 
this romantic and generous expedition he was accompanied by 
his young wife. He set sail for Rhode Island, carrying with him 
a valuable library of books, and the bulk of his property. But, 
to the shame of the Government, be it said, the promises made 
him were not fulfilled, and after seven years of single-handed 
endeavor, he was forced to return to England, having spent the 
greater part of his fortune in vain. 

He was made Bishop of Cloyne in 1734. When he wished 
to resign, the King would not permit him; and being keenly 
alive to the evils of non-residence, he made an arrangement be¬ 
fore leaving Cloyne, whereby he settled £200 a year, during his 
absence, on the poor. In 1752, he removed to Oxford, where, 
in 1753, he was suddenly seized, while reading, with palsy of the 
heart, and died almost instantaneously. 

Of his numerous writings we cannot here speak; two only 
belong to our subject: the Principles of Knowledge , and the 


* Sir J. Mackintosh. 



LIFE OF BERKELEY. 


549 


Dialogues of Ilylas and Philonous. We hope to remove some 
of the errors and prejudices with which his name is incrusted. 
We hope to show that, even in what are called his wildest moods, 
Berkeley was a plain, sincere, deep-thinking man, not a sophist, 
playing with paradoxes to display his skill. 

§ II. Berkeley and Common Sense. 

All the world has heard of Berkelev’s Idealism : and innumer- 

m / 

able “ coxcombs ” have vanquished it *■' with a grin.”* Ridicule 
has not been sparing. Argument has not been wanting. Ideal¬ 
ism has been laughed at, written at, talked at, shrieked at. That 
it has been understood is not so apparent. In reading the criti¬ 
cisms upon his theory it is quite ludicrous to notice the constant 
iteration of trivial objections, which, trivial as they are, Berkeley 
had already anticipated. In fact the critics misunderstood him, 
and then reproached him for inconsistency—inconsistency, not 
with his principles, but with theirs. They forced a meaning upon 
his words which he had expressly rejected; and then triumphed 
over him because he did not pursue their principles to the extrav¬ 
agances "which would have resulted from them. 

When Berkeley denied the existence of matter, he meant by 
“ matter ” that unknown substratum , the existence of which 
Locke had declared to be a necessary inference from our knowl¬ 
edge of qualities, but the nature of which must ever be altogether 
hidden from us. Philosophers had assumed the existence of 
Substance, i. e. of a noumenon lying underneath all 'phenomena — 
a substratum supporting all qualities—a something in which all 
accidents inhere. This unknown Substance, Berkeley rejects. It 
is a mere abstraction, he says. If it is unknown, unknowable, 
it is a figment, and I will none of it; for it is a figment worse 
than useless; it is pernicious, as the basis of all atheism. If by 
matter you understand that which is seen, felt, tasted, and touch¬ 
ed, then I say matter exists: I am as firm a believer in its exist* 


* “ And coxcombs vanquish Berkeley with a grin.”— Pope. 



550 


BERKELEY. 


ence as any one can be, and herein I agree with the vulgar. If, 
on the contrary, you understand by matter that occult substratum 
which is not seen, not felt, not tasted, and not touched—that of 
which the senses do not, cannot, inform you—then I say I believe 
not in the existence of matter, and herein I differ from the phi¬ 
losophers and agree with the vulgar. 

“ I am not for changing things into ideas,” he says, “ but rather 
ideas into things; since those immediate objects of perception , 
which, according to you (Berkeley might have said according to 
all philosophers) are only appearances of things , I take to be the 
real things themselves. 

“ Hylas. Things! you may pretend what you please ; but it. 
is certain you leave us nothing but the empty forms of things, 
the outside of which only strikes the senses. 

“ Philonous. What you call the empty forms and outside of 
things seem to me the very things themselves. . . . We both 
therefore agree in this, that we perceive only sensible forms; but 
herein we differ: you will have them to be empty appearances; 
T, real beings. In short, you do not trust your senses ; I do .” 

Berkeley is always accused of having propounded a theory 
which contradicts the evidence of the senses. That a man who 
thus disregards the senses must be out of his own, was a ready 
answer; ridicule was not slow in retort; declamation gave itself 
elbow-room, and exhibited itself in a triumphant attitude. It 
was easy to declare that “ the man who seriously entertains this 
belief, though in other respects he may be a very good man, as 
i man may be who believes he is made of glass; yet surely he 
hath a soft place in his understanding, and hath been hurt by 
much thinking.”* 

Unfortunately for the critics, Berkeley did not contradict the 
evidence of the senses; did not propound a theory at variance 
in this point with the ordinary belief of mankind. His pecu¬ 
liarity is, that he confined himself exclusively to the evidence ot 


* Reid, Inquiry. 



BERKELEY AND COMMON SENSE. 


551 


the senses. What the senses informed him of, that, and that 
only , would he accept. lie held fast to the facts of conscious¬ 
ness ; he placed himself resolutely in the centre of the instinctive 
belief of mankind : there he took liis stand, leaving to philoso¬ 
phers the region of supposition, inference, and of occult sub¬ 
stances. 

The reproach made to him is really the reproach he made to 
philosophers, namely, that they would not trust to the evidence 
of their senses; that over and above what the senses told them, 
they imagined an occult something of which the senses gave no 
indication. “ Now it was against this metaphysical phantom of 
the brain,” says an acute critic, “ this crotchet-world of philoso¬ 
phers, and against it alone, that all the attacks of Berkeley were 
directed. The doctrine that the realities of things were not made 
for man, and that he must rest satisfied with mere appearances, 
was regarded, and rightly, by him, as the parent of skepticism 
with all her desolating train. He saw, that philosophy, in giving 
up the reality immediately within her grasp, in favor of a reality 
supposed to be less delusive, which lay beyond the limits of ex¬ 
perience, resembled the dog in the fable, who, carrying a piece 
of meat across a river, let the substance slip from his jaws, while 
with foolish greed he snatched at the shadow in the stream. 
The dog lost his dinner, and philosophy let go her secure hold 
upon truth. He therefore sided with the vulgar, who recognize 
no distinction between the reality and the appearance of objects, 
and, repudiating the baseless hypothesis of a world existing un¬ 
known and unperceived, he resolutely maintained that what are 
called the sensible shows of things are in truth the very things 
themselves.”* 

True it is that, owing to the ambiguities of language, Berke¬ 
ley’s theory does seem to run counter to the ordinary belief of 
mankind, because by Matter men commonly understand the 


* Blackwood's Mag., June, 1842, p. 814, art. Berkeley and Idealism: under¬ 
stood to have been written by Professor Ferrier. 



552 


BERKELEY. 


Seen, the Tasted, the Touched, etc.; therefore when the exist¬ 
ence of matter is denied, people naturally suppose that the exist* 
ence of the Seen, the Tasted, and the Touched is denied, never 
suspecting that Matter, in its philosophical sense, is the not seen, 
not tasted, not touched. Berkeley has not, it must be confessed, 
sufficiently guarded against all ambiguity. Thus he says in one 
of the opening sections of his Principles of Human Knowledge , 
that “ it is indeed an opinion strangely prevailing amongst men 
that houses, mountains, rivers, and, in a word, all sensible objects, 
have an existence, natural or real, distinct from their being per¬ 
ceived by the understanding.” This is striking a false key¬ 
note. It rouses the reader to oppose a coming paradox. Yet 
Berkeley foresaw and answered the objections which Wimpey, 
Beattie, Reid, and others brought forward. He was not giving 
utterance to a caprice; he was not spinning an ingenious 
theory, knowing all the while that it was no more than an inge¬ 
nuity. He was an earnest thinker, patient in the search after truth. 
Anxious therefore that his speculations should not be regarded 
as mere dialectical displays, he endeavored on various occasions 
to guard himself from misapprehension. 

“ I do not argue against the existence of any one thing that 
we can apprehend either by sensation or reflection. That the 
things I see with my eyes and touch with my hands do exist } 
really exist , I make not the least question. The only thing 
whose existence I deny is that which philosophers call Matter , or 
corporeal substance. And in doing this there is no damage 
done to the rest of mankind, who, I dare say, will never miss 
it. ... 

“ If any man thinks we detract from the reality or existence of 
things, he is very far from understanding what has been pre¬ 
mised in the plainest terms I could think of. . . . It will be 
urged that thus much at least is true, viz. that we take away all 
corporeal substances. To this my answer is, that if the word 
substance be taken in the vulgar sense for a combination of sen¬ 
sible qualities, such as extension, solidity, weight, etc., this we 


BERKELEY AND COMMON SENSE. 553 

cannot be accused of taking away.'* * * § But if it be taken in the 
philosophic sense, for the support of accidents or qualities 
without the mind; then, indeed, I acknowledge that we take it 
away, if one may be said to take away that which never had 
any existence, not even in the imagination.! But say what we 
can, some perhaps may be apt to reply, he will still believe his 
senses, and never suffer any arguments, however plausible, to 
prevail over the certainty of them. Be it so: assert the evi¬ 
dence of sense as high as you please, we are willing to do tne 
same. That what I see, hear, and feel, doth exist, i. e. is per¬ 
ceived by me, I no more doubt than I do of my own being; but 
I do not see how the testimony of sense can be alleged as a proof 
of any thing which is not perceived by sense 

After reading these passages (and more of a similar cast 
might be quoted), in what terms shall we speak of the works 
written to refute Idealism ? Where was the acuteness of the 
Reids and Beatties, when they tauntingly asked why Berkeley 
did not run his head against a post, did not walk over preci¬ 
pices, etc., as, in accordance with liis theory, no pain, no broken 
limbs could result ?§ Where was philosophical acumen, when 
writers could imagine they refuted Berkeley by an appeal to 
common sense—when they contrasted the instinctive beliefs of 
mankind with the speculative paradoxes of a philosopher, who 

* An answer to T>r. Johnson’s peremptory refutation of Berkeley, xh. 
kicking a stone ; as if Berkeley ever denied that what we call stones ex¬ 
isted ! 

f This is not well said. That substance was imagined to exist (as a sup¬ 
port of accidents) Berkeley’s argument supposes : it is against such an ima¬ 
ginary existence he directs his attacks. Perhaps he means that no image of 
substance could be formed in the mind ; which no one disputes. 

X Principles of Human Knowledge , sections 35, 36, 37, 40. 

§ “ But what is the consequence ? I resolve not to believe my senses ? I 
break my head against a post that comes in my way; I step into a dirty 
kennel; and after twenty such wise and rational actions I am taken up and 
clapt into a madhouse. Now I confess I had rather make one of those credu¬ 
lous fools whom nature imposes upon, than of those wise and rational phi- 
.osophers who resolve to withhold assent at all this expense.”—Reid’s 
Inquiry , ch. 4, § 20. This one passage is as good as a hundred. 



554 


BERKELEY. 


expressly took his stand beside common sense against philoso¬ 
phers ? 

Men trained in metaphysical speculations may find it difficult 
to conceive the non-existence of an invisible unknowable sub¬ 
stratum ; but that the bulk of mankind find’t almost impossible 
do conceive any such substratum, is a fact which the slightest 
inquiry will verify. We remember a discussion which lasted an 
entire evening, in which by no power of illustration, by no force 
of argument, could the idea of this substance, apart from its 
sensible qualities, be rendered conceivable to our antagonist. 

Berkeley therefore, in denying the existence of matter, sided 
with common sense. He thought, with the vulgar, that matter 
was that of which his senses informed him ; not an occult some¬ 
thing of which he could have no information. The table he 
saw before him certainly existed : it was hard, polished, colored, 
of a certain figure, and cost some guineas. But there was no 
'phantom table lying underneath the apparent table —there was 
no invisible substance supporting that table. What he per¬ 
ceived was a table, and nothing more; what he perceived it to 
be, he would believe it to be, and nothing more. His starting- 
point was thus what the plain dictates of his senses, and the 
senses of all men, furnished. 

§ III. Idealism. 

The first step which a philosopher takes in any inquiry is a 
departure from Common Sense. Reflecting upon what his 
senses convey to him, he seeks an explanation of phenomena : 
and it is in proportion to the care with which he analyzes the 
facts to be explained, that he is usually supposed to be free 
from the mere extravagances of speculation. And yet Berke¬ 
ley’s rigorous analysis of the facts of consciousness has obtained 
for him the reputation of being one of the most extravagant of 
speculators! 

This is the problem : our senses inform us of the existence of 


IDEALISM. 


555 


certain sensible qualities, such as extension, color, solidity, etc. 
But our reason tells us that these qualities must be qualities of 
something: they cannot exist as mere extension, color, etc.: 
there must be something extended, colored, etc. What is that 
something ? The solution given by the philosophers was uni¬ 
formly this : what that substance is we can never know, because 
it lies beyond our apprehension ; but we are forced to admit it, 
as a support to the qualities which we do apprehend, as a sub¬ 
stance in which sensible qualities inhere. So that, deeply con¬ 
sidered, the only reason for inferring the existence of Matter is 
the necessity for some synthesis of attributes. 

Now, what did Berkeley ? With very subtle perception of 
the difficulties of the problem, he boldly solved it by making the 
synthesis a mental one. Thus was matter wholly got rid of; it 
had no longer the excuse of beinor an inference. 

The nature of human knowledge is the first object of his in¬ 
quiry. “ It is said that the faculties we have are few, and those 
designed by nature for the support and pleasure of life, and not 
to penetrate into the inward essence and constitution of things. 
Besides, the mind of man, being finite, when it treats of things 
which partake of infinity, it is not to be wondered at if it run 
into absurdities and contradictions, out of which it is impossible 
it should ever extricate itself, it being of the nature of infinite 
not to be comprehended by that which is finite.” 

This is plainly enough launched at Locke; but the worthy 
Bishop has no such disposition “ to sit down in quiet ignorance.” 
He suspects that “ we may be too partial in placing the fault 
originally in our faculties, and not rather in the wrong use we 
make of them.” He believes that God is too bountiful not to have 
placed knowledge within our reach, of which he has given us the 
desire. Berkeley here forgets the lesson man was taught in Para¬ 
dise, where the Tree of Knowledge was placed within his reach, 
but the fruits thereof forbidden him. “Upon the whole,” con¬ 
tinues Berkeley, “ I am inclined to think that the far greater 
part, if not all the difficulties which have hitherto amused philoso- 


556 


BERKELEY. 


pliers and blocked up the way to knowledge, are entirely owing 
to themselves. That we have first raised a dust, and then com¬ 
plain we cannot see.” 

The pretension on which all philosophy is founded is here 
openly proclaimed. The consequences of Locke’s doctrine are 
rejected ; the premises are retained. Berkeley’s account of the 
origin of knowledge is the same as Locke’s, only somewhat 
more explicitly defined. “ It is evident to any one who takes a 
survey of the objects of human knowledge that they are either 
ideas actually imprinted on the senses, or else such as are per¬ 
ceived by attending to the passions and operations of the mind ; 
or, lastly, ideas formed by help of memory and imagination, 
either compounding, dividing, or barely representing those origi¬ 
nally perceived in the aforesaid ways.” 

Remark, firstly, that the objects of knowledge are said to be 
ideas. This has a paradoxical air to those unaccustomed to 
metaphysics, yet it is the simple expression of the facts of con¬ 
sciousness. All that the mind can be conversant about is ob¬ 
viously its ideas: we are conscious of nothing but the changes 
that take place in our minds. Whether these ideas are the 
copies or representatives of any things —whether changes in our 
state are to be attributed to any external cause : this is a question 
of philosophy, a question which common sense makes no scruple of 
begging. You see before you a flower, and you assume that an 
external thing resembling that flower exists, and that your sensa¬ 
tion is produced by it, as a reflection in a mirror is produced by 
an object out of the mirror. But dive deeper into consciousness; 
interrogate yourself, and you will find that the comparison of the 
mirror is an assumption made only to explain the facts of con¬ 
sciousness, not given in those facts. Moreover, granting the as¬ 
sumption, you will then make the mind immediately conversant 
vitli its ideas only ; for assuming that objects reflect themselves 
m the mirror, the mirror itself knows only the reflections : these 
it knows immediately ; the objects it knows mediately , i. e. 
through the reflections. Thus is Berkeley keeping rigorously to 


IDEALISM. 


5o < 

the facts of consciousness when he says that the “ objects of 
knowledge are ideas.” 

Secondly, remark on Berkeley’s use of the word idea, which 
stands both for sensation and idea. We cannot but regard this 
confusion of language as the cause of no little misapprehension 
of his doctrines. It is well therefore to warn the reader thereof. 
Now to consequences. “That neither our thoughts, nor pas¬ 
sions, nor the ideas formed by our imagination, exist without the 
mind, is what everybody will allow; and to me it is no less evi¬ 
dent that the various sensations or ideas imprinted on the sense, 
however blended or combined together (that is , whatever objects 
they compose ), cannot exist otherwise than in a mind perceiving 
them. . . . The table I write on, I say exists, i. e. I see it and feel it, 
and if I were out of my study I should say it existed; meaning 
thereby that if I was in my study I might perceive it, or that 
some other spirit actually does perceive it. As to what is said 
about the existence of unthinking things, without any relation to 
their being perceived, that is to me perfectly unintelligible. 
Their esse is per dpi; nor is it possible they should have any 
existence out of the minds or thinking things which perceive 
them.” 

It is in this last paragraph that the kernel of his system lies. 
He had identified objects with ideas : having done so, it was easy 
to prove that objects could not exist without a perceiving mind 
in which to exist as ideas. “ For what are the objects but the 
things which we perceive by sense ?” Realism assents : objects 
are what we perceive. “And what, I pray you,” continues 
Berkeley, “ do we perceive besides our own ideas or sensations ?” 
Realism hesitates ; certainly the mirror has nothing immediately 
present to it, besides the reflections. “ And is it not plainly re¬ 
pugnant,” triumphantly continues Idealism, “that any one of 
these ideas, or any combination of them, should exist uuper- 
ceived ?” Realism lias no answer to offer. It is in a dilemma 
from which there is apparently no escape. 

The supposition of the existence of matter is founded on the 








558 


BERKELEY. 


doctrine of abstract ideas (against which. Berkeley wages war). 
“For can there he a nicer strain of abstraction than to distin¬ 
guish the existence of sensible objects from their being perceived, 
so as to conceive them existing unperceived ? Light and colors, 
heat and cold, extension and figures—in a word, the things we 
see and feel —what are they but so many sensations, notions, 
ideas, or impressions on the sense; and is it not impossible to 
separate, even in thought, amj of these from perception ? For my 
part, I might as easily divide a thing from itself. I may indeed 
divide in my thoughts, or conceive apart from each other, those 
things which perhaps I never perceived by sense so divided. 
Thus I imagine the trunk of the human body without the limbs, 
or conceive the smell of a rose without thinking of the rose itself. 
So far I will not deny that I can abstract, if that be properly 
called abstraction which extends only to the conceiving sepa¬ 
rately such objects as it is impossible may really exist, or be ac¬ 
tually perceived asunder; but my conceiving or imagining power 
does not extend beyond the possibility of real existence or per¬ 
ception. Hence, as it is impossible for me to see or feel any 
thing without an actual sensation of that thing, so it is impossi¬ 
ble for me to conceive in my thoughts any sensible thing or ob¬ 
ject distinct from the sensation or perception of it. In truth, the 
object and the sensation are the same thing, and cannot there¬ 
fore be abstracted from one another. . . . 

“ In a word, all the choir of heaven and furniture of earth— 
all those bodies which compose the mighty frame of the world— 
have not any subsistence without a mind: their esse is to be per¬ 
ceived or known; and consequently, so long as they are not ac¬ 
tually perceived by me, or do not exist in my mind, or that of 
any other created spirit, they must either have no existence at 
all, or else subsist in the mind of some eternal spirit . . . . 

“ Though we hold indeed the objects of sense to be nothing 
else but ideas which cannot exist unperceived, yet we may not 
hence conclude they have no existence except only while they 
are perceived by us, since there may be some other spirit that 


IDEALISM. 


559 


perceives them, though we do not. Whenever bodies are said to 
have no existence without the mind, I would not be understood to 
mean this or that 'particular mind , but all minds whatsoever. It 
does not therefore follow that bodies are annihilated and created 
every moment, or exist not at all during the intervals between 
our perception of them. . . . 

“ I am content to put the whole upon this issue: if you can 
but conceive it possible for one extended movable substance, or 
in general for any one idea, or any thing like an idea, to exist 
otherwise than in a mind perceiving it, I shall readily give up 
the cause; I shall grant you its existence, though you cannot 
either give me a reason why you believe it exists, or assign any 
use to it when it is supposed to exist. I say the bare possibility 
of your opinion being true, shall pass for an argument that it 
is so. 

“But, say you, surely there is nothing easier than for me to 
imagine trees in a park, or books in a closet, and nobody by to 
perceive them. I answer, you may so: there is no difficulty in 
it. But what is all this, I beseech you, more than framing in 
your mind certain ideas which you call books and trees, and at 
the same time omitting to frame the idea, of any one perceiving 
them ? 

“ But do not you yourself perceive or think of them all the 
while ? This therefore is nothing to the purpose : it only shows 
you have the power of imagining or framing ideas in your mind, 
but it does not show that you can conceive it possible the objects 
of your thought may exist without the mind. To make out this, 
it is necessary that you conceive them existing unperceived or 
unthought of, which is a manifest repugnancy. When we do 
our utmost to conceive the existence of external bodies, we are all 
the while only contemplating our own ideas 

The last very remarkable passage must have been overlooked 


* The foregoing passage^ are all taken from the Principles of Human 
Knowledge , sections 5, 6, S, 22 and 23. 



5G0 


BERKELEY. 


by tlie critic before mentioned, otherwise he would not have said 
that the “knot which Berkeley loosened, but which he certainly 
died not explicitly untie,” was to be resolved, for the first time, 
by the arguments he there brings forward. Berkeley had untied 
the knot, explicitly, satisfactorily; and that too in the same way 
as his critic.* 

The distinction between 'primary and secondary qualities, 
Berkeley easily refutes, and shows that the same arguments 
which make the secondary qualities to be only affections of the 
mind may be applied to the primary qualities. 

Having battered down almost every objection, trivial or seri¬ 
ous, that could be offered, Idealism iterates its fundamental prin¬ 
ciple :—All our knowledge of objects is a knowledge of ideas ; 
objects and ideas are the same. Ergo, nothing exists but what 
is perceived. 

Realism espies a loophole. These ideas, with which we admit 
the mind to be solely conversant, are but the ideas (images) of 
certain things: these things exist independently of being per¬ 
ceived, though their ideas cannot. Berkeley foresaw this also. 
“ But, say you, though the ideas themselves do not exist without 
the mind, yet there may be things like them whereof they are 
copies or resemblances, which things exist without the mind in 
an unthinking substance. I answer, an idea can be like nothing 
but an idea ; a color or figure can be like nothing but another 
color or figure. Again, I ask whether those supposed originals 
or external things, of which our ideas are the pictures or repre¬ 
sentations, be themselves perceivable or no ? If they are, then 
they are ideas, and we have gained our point; but if you say 
they are not, I appeal to any one whether it be sense to assert a 
color is like something which is invisible; hard or soft, like some¬ 
thing which is intangible ?” (Sect. 8.) 

Realism is without a shadow of an answer. The philosophers 
are powerless against a theory so defended. No wonder that 


* See the article in Blackwood , p. 817, et seq. 



IDEALISM. 


561 


Idealism should have been pronounced irrefutable; the weapons 
were not forged, or, at any rate, were not in the armory of phi¬ 
losophy, which could successfully assail a fortress built on such a 
position. Dr. Reid’s attempt we shall examine by and by. 

As far as the simple facts of Consciousness extend, the analysis 
given by Berkeley is unimpeachable, unless we deny that Con¬ 
sciousness is immediately affected by sensations, and assert that 
it is immediately affected by external objects; but no metaphysi¬ 
cian ever took up this position, for it would lead him to maintain 
that Consciousness is nothing but these very sensations, which 
are produced in the organism by the action of external influ¬ 
ences ; and this would be getting rid of the substratum Mind, 
in order to rescue the substratum Matter. No metaphysician 
therefore ever did or could, logically, object to Berkeley’s funda¬ 
mental position ; but only tried to elude it, or make it open into 
other issues. 

Given, however, the facts, there comes the question of infer¬ 
ences. It has been well said by Mr. Herbert Spencer that the 
denial of an external world “ consists of a series of dependent 
propositions, no one of which possesses greater certainty than 
the single proposition to be disproved.”* If the grounds of our 
belief in an external world are questionable, what better grounds 
have we for the belief that the external world is a mere subjec¬ 
tive phenomenon ? 

We are to settle whether it is a more plausible hypothesis that 
ideas are proximately produced in us by the mere Will of the 
Creator, whose will is effectuated by certain laws; or whether the 
ideas are proximately produced in us by external objects, which 
exist quite independently of us. This question, remember, is one 
which admits of no proof. It is not a question of fact, but of 
plausibility. It is not to be decided by common sense, but by 
analogical reasoning. Our knowledge extends no further than 
our ideas. Our inferences can be nothing more than inferences. 


* Principles of Psychology, p. 86. 



562 


BERKELEY. 


Berkeley has far better reasons for his inference than his critics 
imagine. He could not see the force of the argument which 
made Matter a necessary postulate. That we could have sensa¬ 
tions and ideas without the presence x>f objects, is manifest from 
the fact that we do often have them so, in dreams and frenzies. 
If, therefore, matter is not always necessary for the production 
of ideas—if ideas can be sometimes produced without the pres¬ 
ence of external objects—the pretended necessity, which alone 
forms the argument for the existence of matter, is done away with. 

“But though,” he says, “we might possibly have all our sen¬ 
sations without bodies, yet perhaps it may be thought easier to 
conceive and explain the manner of their production by suppos¬ 
ing external bodies in their likeness rather than otherwise, and 
so it might at least be probable there are such things as bodies 
that excite ideas in our minds. But neither can this be said, for 
though we give the Materialists their external bodies, they, by 
their own confession, are never nearer the knowing how our ideas 
are produced, since they own themselves unable to comprehend 
in what manner body can act upon spirit , or how it is possible it 
should imprint an idea in the mind.” 

We have here the difficulty stated, which most Dualists 
(those who maintain the existence of spirit and matter, as dis¬ 
tinct substances) have not been sufficiently alive to; and one 
which gave rise to Leibnitz’s theory of pre-established harmony, 
and to Malebranche’s theory of our seeing all things in God. 
This difficulty is indeed insuperable. It is easy to talk of the 
spirit being a mirror in which the universe reflects itself. Try 
for an instant to imagine a substance, such as matter, reflecting 
itself in, or acting upon, another substance having no one prop¬ 
erty in common with it. You cannot. Nor is this all: you 
cannot even imagine two substances so distinct as matter and 
spirit are defined to be. 

Berkeley then is right in triumphing over Realism and Dual 
ism. Bight in saying, that if he were to accord them the exist¬ 
ence of matter, they could make no use of it. The subiect would 


IDEALISM. 


563 


remain as dark as before : matter throws no liodit on it. He 
maintains that our ideas are produced in us in conformity with 
the laws of Nature. These laws have been ordained by God. 
To suppose that matter is the mere occasional cause—the vehicle 
through which the laws of Nature operate —is gratuitous. The 
agency of the Creator is more simple and direct. He had no 
need of creating first laws, and afterwards matter, through which 
these laws should come into effect. He created the laws alone; 
they act upon us as they were destined to act, aud without the 
superfluous aid of matter, which is a mere go-between. 

Now, as an inference—as a scientific hypothesis—few thor¬ 
oughly acquainted with the question, and with the data on which 
it was founded, can, we think, deny that this of Berkeley is many 
degrees superior to the hypothesis of Dualism. While philoso¬ 
phers teach that there are two distinct eternal substances, which 
they name Spirit and Matter, Berkeley teaches that there is only 
one substance, viz. Spirit. With this one substance he can con¬ 
struct the world. According, therefore, to the fundamental rule 
in philosophy, that “ Entities or existences are not to be multi¬ 
plied unless upon necessity” (entia non sunt multiplicanda pra¬ 
ter necessitatem), the introduction of a second substance, viz. 
matter, is superfluous, or worse. Of the existence of matter we 
have no proof whatever: it is a mere inference; it is inferred, 
in order to explain the phenomena: and what phenomena ? 
those of perception— i. e. the phenomena of the thinking sub¬ 
stance. 

If, theu, Berkeley is more rigorous in his analysis of facts, and 
more ingenious and plausible in his hypothesis, than his antago¬ 
nists suppose, shall we pronounce his Idealism satisfactory and 
true ? 

Hume said of it, that it admitted of no answer, but produced 
no conviction. And we have met with no final refutation of it. 
Yet, inasmuch as it is the irresistible belief of mankind that ob¬ 
jects are not dependent either upon our perception of them, or 
npon the perception of any other mind, for their existence—that 
39 


564 


BERKELEY. 


objects exist per se , and would continue to exist if all minds were 
annihilated—Berkeley’s theory never can produce conviction. 
Reid, therefore, was right in standing by this universal and irre¬ 
sistible belief. He was egregiously wrong, however, in supposing 
that he answered Berkeley by an appeal to this irresistible belief. 
It does not follow that a belief which is irresistible must be true. 
This maxim, so loudly proclaimed by the Scotch school,* is re¬ 
futed by several well-known facts in philosophy. Thus—to take 
the most striking example—the belief that the sun revolved round 
the earth, was for many centuries irresistible, and false. Why may 
not Berkeley have been a metaphysical Copernicus, who, by rig¬ 
orous demonstration, proved the believe of mankind in the exist¬ 
ence of matter to be irresistible and false ? Reid has no answer 
to give. He can merely say, “ I side with the vulgarbut he 
might have given the same answer to Copernicus. Many illus¬ 
trious men (Bacon among them) ridiculed the Copernican theory; 
but all the dogmatism, ridicule, aud common sense in the world 
could not affect that theory. Why, we repeat, may not Berkeley 
have been a metaphysical Copernicus ? 

To prove that he was not, you must prove his reasoning de¬ 
fective ; to prove this, you must show wherein his error lies, and 
not wherein his theory is at variance with your belief. All that 
your irresistible belief amounts to, is that of a strong, a very 
strong, presumption against the truth of that which opposes it. 
Reid, in accepting this presumption as a proof, was in the right 
so long as Berkeley’s reasoning was not strong enough to over- 


* Especially by'Dr. Brown, who says that the “skeptical argument for the 
non-existence of an external world, as a mere play of reasoning, admits of 
no reply.” The only reply he makes is, that the belief is irresistible. Hume 
had already admitted that the belief was irresistible; the whole scope of his 
philosophy w r as to prove it both irresistible and false. IIow absurd, then, to 
appeal to the belief! Kant truly observes, in the Preface to his Kritik , “ Ad¬ 
mitting Idealism to be as dangerous as it really is, it would still remain a 
shame to philosophy and reason to be forced to ground the existence of an 
external world on the (mere) evidence of belief.” The more so as the fact 
of belief had never been questioned. The question was, Is the belief well 
grounded? 



IDEALISM. 505 

come it ; but singularly wrong in supposing that the presumption 
was a refutation. 

Berkeley’s main position is, that the objects of knowledge are 
ideas, and nothing but ideas. The position is incontrovertible. 
The conclusion therefore, all human knowledge can only be the 
knowledge of ideas , and of nothing but ideas , is equally incontest¬ 
able. Not less so the second conclusion: objects being identified 
with ideas, and we having no idea of an object but as it is per¬ 
ceived, the esse of objects to us is percipi . 

In admitting all this, what do we admit ? Simply that human 
knowledge is not the “ measure of all things.” Objects to us can 
never be more than ideas; but are we the final measure of all 
existence ? It was the dogma of the Sophist that Man is the 
measure of all things. It should not be the dogma of the sober 
thinker. Because we can only know objects as ideas, is it a 
proper conclusion that objects only exist as ideas? For this 
conclusion to be rigorous, we must have some proof of our knowl¬ 
edge being the absolute standard of truth, instead of the stand¬ 
ard of the relation thino-s bear to our intellect. 

# O 

The Idealist will say, “ If you cannot know any thing beyond 
your ideas, why do you infer that there is any thing?—A ques¬ 
tion not easily answered. He will moreover say, “ I defy you 
to conceive any thing existing unperceived. Attempt to imagine 
the existence of matter when mind is absent. You cannot, for 
in the very act of imagining it, you include an ideal percipient. 
The trees and mountains you imagine to exist away from any 
perceiving mind, what are they but the very ideas of your mind, 
which you transport to some place where you are not? In fact, 
to separate existence from perception is radically impossible. It 
is God’s svnthesis, and man cannot undo it.”* 

To this we answer, it is very true that, inasmuch as our knowl¬ 
edge of objects is identical with our ideas, we can never, by any 


* See this argued in a masterly manner by the critic in Blackwood before 
quoted. 



566 


BERKELEY. 


freak of thought, imagine an object apart from the conditions 
under which we know it. We are forced by the laws of our na¬ 
ture to invest objects with the forms in which we perceive them.* 
We cannot therefore conceive any thing which has not been 
subject to the laws of our nature, because in the very act of con¬ 
ception those laws come into play. But is it not a very differ¬ 
ent proposition to say, “ I cannot conceive things otherwise than 
according to the laws of my nature,” and to say, “ I cannot con¬ 
ceive things otherwise, consequently they cannot exist otherwise?” 
The Idealist here assumes that knowledge is absolute, not rela¬ 
tive—that man is the measure of all things. 

Perception is the identity (in the metaphysical sense of the 
word) of the ego and the non-ego—the tertium quid of two uni¬ 
ted forces; as water is the identity of oxygen and hydrogen. 
The ego can never have any knowledge of the non-ego, in which 
it (the ego) is not indissolubly bound up; as oxygen never can 
unite with hydrogen to form water, without merging itself and 
the hydrogen in a tertium quid. Let us suppose the oxygen 
endowed with a consciousness of its changes. It would attribute 
the change not to hydrogen, which is necessarily hidden from it, 
but to water , the only form under which hydrogen is known tc 
it. In its consciousness it would find the state named water (per¬ 
ception), which would be very unlike its own state (the ego); 
and it would suppose that this state, so unlike its own, was a rep¬ 
resentation of that which caused it. We say then, that although 
the hydrogen can only exist for the oxygen (in the above case) 
in the identity of both as water, this is no proof that hydrogen 


* “ When in perception,” says Schelling, “ I represent an object, object 
and representation are one and the same. And simply in this our inability to 
discriminate the object from the representation during the act, lies the con¬ 
viction which the common sense of mankind has of the reality of external 
things, although these become known to it only through the representa¬ 
tions.” ( Ideen zu einer Phibs. der Natur , Pinleitungr, p. xix., quoted by Sir 
W. Hamilton.) This is indisputable, but it is only saying that our knowl¬ 
edge of things is subject to the conditions of knowledge. Because we cannot 
discriminate between the object and the representation, it is no proof that 
there is no distinction between them. 



IDEALISM. 


5(37 


Joes not exist under some other relations to other forces. In like 
manner, although the non-ego cannot exist in relation to mind 
otherwise than in the identity of the two (perception); this is 
no sort of proof that it does not exist in relation to other beings 
under quite different conditions. 

In conclusion, we admit, with the Idealists, that all our knowl¬ 
edge of objects consists in our ideas. But we cannot admit that 
all existence is limited by our knowledge, merely on the ground 
that when we would conceive any thing existing, we are forced 
to conceive it in accordance with the laws of our conceptive fac¬ 
ulties. We admit, with the Idealists, that all our knowledge is 
subjective . But we do not admit that what is true subjectively, is 
true objectively. We believe in the existence of an external 
world quite independent of any percipient; not because such is 
the obvious and universal belief, but because the arguments by 
which Idealism would controvert it are vitiated by the assump¬ 
tion of knowledge being a criterion of all existences. Idealism 
agrees with Realism in placing reliance on the evidence of sense; 
it argues however that inasmuch as our knowledge is confined to 
ideas, we have no right to assume any thing beyond ideas. Yet 
it also is forced to assume something as the cause of ideas: this 
cause it calls the Will of the Creator; and this is an assumption. 
The real dispute therefore should be concentrated on this point: 
Which assumption is more consonant with our irresistible belief, 
—the assumption of an external matter unlike our sensations, 
yet the cause of them; or the assumption of a providential 
scheme, in which our sensations are the effects of the operation 
of Divine laws, and in which matter plays no part? The answer 
cannot be dubious. The former assumption, as more consonant 
with universal belief, must be accepted. 

Berkeley, we believe, failed as a metaphysical Copernicus, be¬ 
cause the assumption which he opposed to the universal belief 
was less consonant with that belief than the assumption it was 
meant to replace. Had Copernicus not started an hypothesis 
which, however contradictory to the senses, nevertheless afforded 


568 


BERKELEY. 


a much better explanation of celestial phenomena than was pos¬ 
sible on the old hypothesis, he would not have been listened to. 
Berkeley’s assumption, if conceded, carries him no deeper than 
the old assumption. Idealism explains nothing. To accept it 
would be to renounce a universal belief for a mere hypothesis. 
But that Berkeley was a deep and remarkable thinker must be 
readily conceded; and he failed, as the greatest Philosophers of 
all times have failed, not because he was weak, but because Phi¬ 
losophy was impossible. 

Those who have followed the course of this History with at¬ 
tention to its moral (so to speak) will not fail to observe how 
Berkeley’s Idealism is at bottom but the much decried system of 
Spinoza, who taught that there was but one essence in the uni¬ 
verse, and that one was Substance. Berkeley also taught that 
there was but one, and that one was Thought. Now call this 
One what you will, the result is the same : speculatively or prac¬ 
tically. You may have certain degrading associations attached 
to the idea of substance ; or certain exalted associations attached 
to that of spirit. But what difference can your associations make 
with respect to the real nature of things ? 

One great result of Berkeley’s labors was the lesson he taught 
of the vanity of ontological speculations. He paved the way to 
that skepticism which, gulf-like, yawns as the terminal road of 
all consistent Metaphysics. 


FIFTH EPOCH. 


THE ARGUMENTS OF IDEALISM CARRIED OUT INTO 

SKEPTICISM. 


CHAPTER I. 

HUME. 

§ I. Life of Hume. 

Mr. Burton’s ample and excellent biography* would furnish 
ns with materials for a pleasant memoir, could we here afford 
the requisite space; but we must content ourselves with refer¬ 
ring the reader to that work, and with merely recording the 
principal dates and events of an uneventful life. 

David Hume was born at Edinburgh, 26th April, 1711; the 
youngest child of a poor laird of good blood. He was an orphan 
before his education was completed. His guardians first thought 
of the profession of law, but, owing to his repugnance, he was 
absolved from that career, and was placed in a Bristol counting- 
house, where he did not remain long. On coming of age he 
found himself in possession of a small property, too small for 
honorable subsistence in England, but large enough for France, 
and to Rheims he went; from thence to La Fleche, where the 
Jesuits’ college and library were great attractions to the studious 
youth ; and there he passed several years in solitary study. 


* The Life and Correspondence of David JLume, from the Papers bequeathed 
to the Royal Society of Edinburgh. By John Hill Barton. 2 vols. 




570 


HUME. 


A great ambition moved him : he was to accomplish for moral 
science a revolution analogous to that which Bacon had effected 
in physical science. His Treatise on Human Nature , which ap¬ 
peared in 1737, and which fell still-born from the press, was an¬ 
nounced as an attempt to introduce the experimental method 
into reasonings on moral science. We need scarcely point out 
the profound misconception of the Experimental Method here 
implied; nor is it necessary to show at any length that there 
was no novelty whatever in Hume’s attempt to test psychology 
by experience. 

In 1741 appeared the first part of his immortal Essays ; and 
in 1747 he accompanied General St. Clair, as secretary, in the 
embassy to Vienna and Turin. In 1752 he published his Po¬ 
litical Discourses and the Inquiry concerning the Principles of 
Morals. The appointment of Librarian to the Faculty of Ad¬ 
vocates in Edinburgh—the salary of which he generously gave 
to the poor poet Blacklock—placed at his disposal a fine collec¬ 
tion of books; and this suggested the undertaking which has 
long been held his greatest title to fame—the History of Eng¬ 
land, the first volume of which appeared in 1754. 

For the literary historian there are two piquant episodes in the 
life of Hume. The first is the ovation given to the philosopher 
in Paris, whither he had accompanied the Marquis of Hertford ; 
the second is his friendship and quarrel with Rousseau. We 
cannot pause to dwell on either. 

Hume died in the spring of 1776, leaving a name imperish¬ 
able in our literature, although it is a name attached to opinions 
which have roused, and will continue to rouse, the most vehe¬ 
ment opposition. It should never be forgotten, moreover, that, 
in spite of Hume’s opinions, so wise and good a man as Adam 
Smith could publicly write of him, “Upon the whole, I have 
always considered him, both during his lifetime and since his 
death, as approaching as nearly to the idea of a perfectly wise 
and virtuous man, as perhaps the nature of human frailty will 
permit.” 


571 


hume’s skepticism. 

§ II. Hume’s Skepticism. 

The marvellous acuteness and subtlety of Hume have never 
been denied; and his influence upon speculation has been aided 
as much by the alarm his doctrines excited, as by the ingenuity 
with which they were upheld. If Berkeley met with no refu- 
ters, Hume could meet with none. Antagonists have generally 
been compelled to admit that the skeptical reasoning was un 
answerable. 

Locke had shown that all our knowledge was dependent upon 
experience. Berkeley had shown that we had no experience of 
an external world independent of perception ; nor could we have 
any such experience. He pronounced matter to be a figment. 
Hume took up the line where Berkeley had cast it, and flung it 
once more into the deep sea, endeavoring to fathom the myste¬ 
ries of being. Probing deeper in the direction Berkeley had 
taken, he found that not only was Matter a figment, Mind was a 
figment also. If the occult substratum, which men had inferred 
to explain material phenomena, could be denied, because not 
founded on experience; so also, said Hume, must we deny the 
occult substratum (mind) which men have inferred to explain 
mental phenomena. All that we have any experience of, is im¬ 
pressions and ideas. The substance of which these are supposed 
to be impressions, is occult—is a mere inference; the substance 
in which these impressions are supposed to be, is equally occult 
—is a mere inference. Matter is but a collection of impressions. 
Mind is but a succession of impressions and ideas.* 

Thus was Berkeley’s dogmatic Idealism converted into Skep¬ 
ticism. Hume, speaking of Berkeley, says, “Most of the wri¬ 
tings of that very ingenious philosopher form the best lessons of 
skepticism which are to be found either among the ancient or 

* Locke had already shown that we are as ignorant of spirit as of sub¬ 
stance. We know mind only in its manifestation ; we cannot know it per se 
as a substratum. Hume’s argument therefore had a firm foundation in phi¬ 
losophy. He only concluded from admitted premises. 



572 


HUME. 


modern philosophers, Bayle not excepted. lie professes, how¬ 
ever, in his title-page (and undoubtedly with great truth) to 
have composed his book against the Skeptics, as well as against 
the Atheists and Free-thinkers. But that all his arguments, 
though otherwise intended, are in reality merely skeptical, ap¬ 
pears from this, that they admit of no answer, and produce no 
conviction.” 

Remark, also, that Hume’s skepticism, though it reduces phi¬ 
losophy to a singular dilemma, viz. that of either refuting the 
skeptical arguments, or of declaring itself and its pretensions to 
be vain and baseless, nevertheless affects in no other way the or¬ 
dinary judgments or actions of mankind. Much stupid ridicule 
and frivolous objection have been, and probably will continue to 
be, brought against Hume. Reid, from whom one might have 
expected something better, is surprised at Hume’s pretending to 
construct a science upon human nature, “ when the intention of 
the whole work is to show that there is neither human nature 
nor science in the world. It may, perhaps, be unreasonable to 
complain of this conduct in an author who neither believes his 
own existence nor that of his reader; and therefore could not 
mean to disappoint him, or laugh at his credulity. Yet I can¬ 
not imagine that the author of the Treatise on Human Nature 
is so skeptical as to plead this apology. He believed, against his 
principles, that he should be read, and that he should retain his 
personal identity, till he reaped the honor and reputation justly 
due to his metaphysical acumen.” He continues further in this 
strain, dragging in the old error about Pyrrho having incon¬ 
sistently been roused to anger by his cook, “ who probably had 
not roasted his dinner to his mind,” and compares this forgetful¬ 
ness to Hume’s every “now and then relapsing into the faith of 
the vulgar.”* 0 

If this was meant for banter, it was very poor banter; if for 
argument, it was pitiable. But if such arguments appeared 


* Inquiry , Introd. i. § 5. 




hume's skepticism. 


573 


valid to a thinker of Reid’s reputation, it is reasonable to sup¬ 
pose that inferior men may also receive them as conclusive. 
Hume shall, therefore, be allowed to speak for himself; and he 
shall speak in the language of that very Treatise on Human 
Nature to which Reid alludes: 

“ Should it be here asked me whether I sincerely assent to this 
argument which I seem to take such pains to inculcate, and 
whether I be really one of those skeptics who hold that all is 
uncertain, and that our judgment is not in any thing possessed 
of any measures of truth and falsehood, I should reply that this 
question is entirely superfluous, and that neither I nor any other 
person was ever sincerely and constantly of that opinion. Na¬ 
ture, by an absolute and uncontrollable necessity, has determined 
us to judge as well as to breathe and feel; nor can we any more 
forbear viewing certain objects in a stronger and fuller light 
upon account of their customary connection with a present im¬ 
pression, than we can hinder ourselves from thinking as long as 
we are awake, or seeing the surrounding bodies when we turn 
our eyes towards them in broad sunshine. Whoever has taken 
the pains to refute the cavils of this total skepticism, has really dis¬ 
puted without an antagonist, and endeavored by arguments to 
establish a faculty which Nature has antecedently implanted in 
the mind and rendered unavoidable. 

“My intention, then, in displaying so carefully the arguments 
of that fantastic sect, is only to make the Reader sensible of the 
truth of my hypothesis, that all our reasonings concerning causes 
and effects, are derived from nothing but custom; and that be¬ 
lief is more properly an act of the sensitive than of the cogitative 

part of our natures.If belief were a simple act of the 

thought, without any peculiar manner of conception, or the ad¬ 
dition of force and vivacity, it must infallibly destroy itself, and . 
in every case terminate in a total suspense of judgment. But 
as experience will sufficiently convince any one, that although he 
finds no error in my arguments, yet he still continues to believe 
and think and reason as usual, he may safely conclude that his 



HUME. 


~ b* 4 

reasoning and belief is some sensation or peculiar manner of con¬ 
ception, which ’tis impossible for mere ideas and reflections to 
destroy.”* 

It has always struck us as an illustration of the great want of 
candor displayed by Hume’s opponents, that they never quoted 
this very significant and explicit passage; indeed, w r e never re¬ 
member to have seen the passage quoted by any one. Let us 
ask, what does the foregoing declaration amount to, if not to the 
boasted “ common-sense view,” that our belief in the existence of 
matter is instinctive, fundamental ? Does not Dr. Brown’s ad¬ 
mission that the skeptical argument is unanswerable as a mere 
play of reasoning, concede all that Hume requires ? Does not 
Dr. Brown’s conclusion, that we are thrown upon “irresistible 
belief’ as our only refuge against skepticism, equally accord 
with Hume’s explicit declaration that we do believe and cannot 
help believing, though we can give no reason for the belief? 

“ Thus the skeptic,” Hume adds a little further on, “ still con¬ 
tinues to reason and believe, even though he asserts that he cau- 
not defend his reason by reason; and by the same rule he must 
assent to the principle concerning the existence of body, though 
he cannot pretend by any arguments of philosophy to maintain 
its veracity. Nature has not left this to his choice , and has 
doubtless esteemed it an affair of too great importance to be 
trusted to our uncertain reasonings and speculations. We may 
well ask, what causes induce us to believe in the existence of body ? 
but ’tis in vain to ask whether there be body or not ? that is a 
point which we must take for granted in all our reasonings.” 

After this let no more be said about Hume’s practical incon¬ 
sequences. Locke before him had clearly enough seen and sig¬ 
nalized the impotenoe of the attempt to penetrate beyond phe¬ 
nomena, and had, with his usual calm wisdom, counselled men to 
“ sit down in quiet ignorance.” He knew the task was hopeless; 
he knew, also, that it w r as trivial. God has given us the means 


* Human Nature , part iv. § i. p. 250. 



hume’s skepticism. 


575 


of knowing all that directly concerns us, a certainty which suf¬ 
fices for all our wants. With that, reasonable men will be con¬ 
tent. If they seek more, they seek the impossible; if they push 
their speculations deeper, they end in skepticism. It was the 
philosophical mission of Hume (to adopt a phrase in vogue) to 
show how inevitably all such speculations, if consistent, ended in 
skepticism. 

“ Men,” he says, “ are carried by a natural instinct or prepos¬ 
session to repose faith in their senses. When they follow this 
blind and powerful instinct of nature, they always suppose the 
very images presented to the senses to be the external objects, 
and never entertain any suspicion that the one are nothing but 
representatives of the other . But this universal and primary 
opinion of all men is soon destroyed by the slightest philosophy, 
which teaches us that nothing can ever be present to the mind 
but an image or perception. So far, then, we are necessitated by 
reasoning to contradict the primary instincts of Nature, and to 
embrace a new system with regard to the evidence of our senses. 
But here philosophy finds herself extremely embarrassed, when 
she would obviate the cavils and objections of the skeptics. She 
can no longer plead the infallible and irresistible instinct of na¬ 
ture, for that led us to quite a different system, which is ac¬ 
knowledged fallible, and even erroneous; and to justify this pre¬ 
tended philosophical system by a chain of clear and convincing 
argument, or even any appearance of argument, exceeds the 
power of all human capacity. 

“ Do you follow the instinct and propensities of nature in as¬ 
senting to the veracity of the senses? But these lead you to 
believe that the very perception or sensible image is the external 
object —(Idealism). 

“ Do you disclaim this principle in order to embrace a more 
rational opinion, that the perceptions are only representations of 
something external? You here depart from your natural pro¬ 
pensities and more obvious sentiments; and yet are not able to 
satisfy your reason, which can never find any convincing argu- 


576 


HUME. 


ment from experience to prove that the perceptions are connected 
with external objects”—(Skepticism). 

This is the dilemma to which Philosophy is reduced: out of 
it there is no escape; and Hume deserves the gratitude of man¬ 
kind for having brought philosophy to this pass. Mankind, how¬ 
ever, has paid him with reprobation. As the whole course of 
this History has been occupied in traciug the inevitable result of 
all Philosophy to be precisely this much abused skepticism, our 
readers will be prepared for a different appreciation of Hume. 
Let us, therefore, endeavor to define the nature of this skepticism, 
which has caused such great alarm. Skepticism, meaning doubt, 
and beiug frequently used to signify religious doubt, has alarm¬ 
ing associations attached to it. To call a man a skeptic is to call 
him a heretic. And, unfortunately for Hume’s philosophical 
reputation, he was a skeptic in religion as well as in philosophy, 
and mankind have consequently identified the former with the 
latter. 

Now, philosophical skepticism can only mean a doubt as to 
the possibility of Philosophy;—in other words, a doubt only on 
one particular subject. If I accept the consequences to which 
the doctrine of Hume leads me, am I forced to suspend my 
judgment, and to pronounce all subjects uncertain ? or am I only 
to pronounce some subjects uncertain ? The latter is clearly the 
only opinion I can entertain. What then are the questions on 
which I must be content to remain in darkness? Locke, no less 
than Hume, has told us : All which relate to Philosophy—which 
pretend to discuss the nature and essences of things. 

This skepticism, the reader must acknowledge, has nothing 
very alarming in it, except to Philosophy. It is maintained by 
the vast majority of thinking men—some from conviction, others 
from a vague sense of the futility of ontological speculation. 
Only the bad passions roused in discussion could pretend to con¬ 
found it with heresy. This Skepticism indicates the boundaries 
of inquiry. It leads us from impossible attempts to fly, to in¬ 
struct us how securely we may run. It destroys Philosophy 


hume’s theory of causation. 577 

only to direct all our energies towards positive Science. In the 
words of Goethe, “Let us not attempt to demonstrate what can¬ 
not be demonstrated! Sooner or later we shall otherwise make 
our miserable deficiencies more glaring to posterity by our so- 
called works of knowledge.” 

Hume was a skeptic; and, consequently, early in life ceased 
devoting his marvellous acuteness to any of the questions agi¬ 
tated in the schools. His Essays and his History were excellent 
products of this change of direction ; and although he did devote 
a portion of the Essays to philosophy, yet it was but a portion, 
and one which gave a more popular and elegant exposition of 
the principles of his first work. 


• § III. Hume’s Theory of Causation. 

It is customary to speak of “Hume’s theory of Causation,” 
and to bestow no inconsiderable acrimony upon him on its ac¬ 
count. But, in the first place, the theory is not peculiarly his; 
in the second place, his application of it to the question of Mir¬ 
acles, which has excited so much vehement controversy, reduces 
itself to “this very plain and harmless proposition, that what¬ 
ever is contradictory to a complete induction is incredible. That 
such a maxim as this should be either accounted a dangerous 
heresy, or mistaken for a recondite truth, speaks ill for the state 
of philosophical speculation on such subjects.”* 

The theory may be thus briefly stated. All our experience of 
causation is simply that of a constant succession. An antece¬ 
dent followed by a sequent—one event followed by another: 
this is all that we experience. AVe attribute indeed to the an¬ 
tecedent, a power of producing or causing the sequent; but we 
can have no experience of such a pow*er. If we believe that the 
fire which has burned us will burn us again, we believe this from 
habit or custom; not from having perceived any power in the 


* Mill’s System of Logic, vol. ii. p. 1S3. 




578 


HUME. 


fire. We believe the future will resemble the past, because cus¬ 
tom has taught us to rely upon such a resemblance. “ When 
we look about us towards external objects, and consider the 
operation of causes, we are never able in a single instance to 
discover any power or necessary connection—any quality which 
binds the effect to the cause, and renders the one an infallible 
consequence to the other. We only find that the one does ac¬ 
tually in fact follow the other. The impulse of one billiard-ball 
is attended with motion in the second. This is the whole that 
appears to the outward senses. The mind feels no sentiment or 
inward impression from this succession of objects; consequently 
there is not, in any single instance of cause and effect, any thing 
which can suggest the idea of power or necessary connection.”* 
This is the whole of his theory. His explanation of our belief 
in power, or necessary connection, is that it is a matter of habit. 

I know not whether Hume ever read Glanvill’s Scepsis Scien- 
tifica. The title was one to attract him. At any rate, Glanvill 
had clearly enough stated Hume’s theory, e. g. “ All knowledge 
of causes is deductive; for we kuow of none by simple intuition, 
but through the mediation of their effects. So that we cannot 
conclude any thing to be the cause of another but from its con¬ 
tinually accompanying it; for the causality itself is insensible .” 
Malebranche had also anticipated it; and so had Hobbes. The 
language indeed of the latter is so similar to the language em¬ 
ployed by Hume, that I agree with Dugald Stewart in believing 
Hume to have borrowed it from Hobbes. “ What we call ex¬ 
perience,” says Hobbes, “is nothing else but remembrance of 
what antecedents have been followed by what consequents. . . . 
No man can have in his mind a conception of the future, for the 
future is not yet; but of our conceptions of the past we make a 
future, or rather call past future relatively. Thus, after a man 
has been accustomed to see like antecedents followed by like 
consequents, whensoever he seeth the like come to pass to any 


* Essay. s', sect. vii. 




hume's theory of causation. 579 

thing he had seen before, he looks there shall follow it the same 
that followed then.” 

This theory of Causation has been hotly debated, partly be¬ 
cause of the “ consequences” which some have seen, with alarm, 
to be deducible from it (for opinions are judged of more by their 
supposed consequences than by their presumed truth); partly 
also because Hume has not stated it with the clearness which 
prevents misunderstanding. It is only to the latter point we can 
here attend. 

When Hume asserts that experience gives no intimation of 
any connection between two events, but only of their invariable 
conjunction ,—when he says that the mind cannot perceive a 
causal nexus, but only an invariableness of antecedence and se¬ 
quence, he is contradicted, or seems to be, by the consciousness 
of his readers. They declare that, over and above the fact of 
sequence, there is always an intimation of power given in every 
causation, and this it is which distinguishes causal from casual 
sequence,—connection from mere conjunction. The fire burns 
paper because there is some power in the fire to effect this 
change. Mere antecedence, even if invariable, cannot be suffi¬ 
cient, or else day would be the cause of night, the flash of light¬ 
ning would be the cause of the thunder-peal. Swallows fly close 
to the earth some little while before the rain falls ; but no one 
supposes the flight of the swallows causes the fall of the rain. 
In every case of causation there must be an element of power—a 
pacity of producing the observed change—a nexus of some kind, 
over and above the mere juxtaposition of bodies. If diamond 
will cut glass, it has a power to do so; the sharpest knife is with¬ 
out this power. 

So reason Hume’s antagonists. Nor do I think they are 
finally answered by resolving the idea of power into mere invari- 
ableness of antecedent and sequent; for they may reply that the 
“invariableness” itself is deduced from the idea of power; we be¬ 
lieve the fire will invariably burn the paper because it has the 
power to do so, because there is a real nexus between fire- and 
40 


fiSO 


HUME. 


the combustion of paper; only on such a belief can our expecta¬ 
tion of the future resembling the past be securely founded. 

The ordinary belief of mankind in the existence of something 
more than mere antecedence and consequence, is therefore a fact. 
This fact Hume and others omit. Because they cannot perceive 
the power, they declare that we have no belief in it. Hume in¬ 
sists upon the impossibility of our perceiving power—of our per¬ 
ceiving any necessary connection between two events. But, say 
those who oppose this theory, “Although we cannot perceive the 
power, we are forced to believe in it; and this belief is not a mat¬ 
ter of custom, but is given in the very facts of consciousness. 
We perceive that some 'power is at work producing effects; the 
precise nature of this power, indeed, we cannot perceive, because 
we never can know things per se. When a spark ignites gun¬ 
powder, we perceive a power in the spark to ignite gunpowder : 
what that pow r er is, we know not; w T e only know 7 its effects. But 
our ignorance is equally great of the gunpowder: what it is we 
know not; w r e only know its appearances to us. It might as 
well be said that w r e believe in the gunpowder from custom 
(since we really know nothing of it per se ), as that we believe in 
the power of the spark to ignite gunpowder from custom, since 
we really know nothing of power per se. We know nothing 
per se .” 

I have marshalled the arguments, with as much force as I 
could muster, into so small a field, in order to bring into appre¬ 
ciable distinctness the source of the opposition to Hume’s theory 
on the part of many who have no doctrinal distrust towards it. 
Before attempting an elucidation of the difficulty, it will be need¬ 
ful to consider the grounds of our belief in causation. As it is a 
fact that all men believe in some power involved in every causal 
act, w r e have to ask, Is that belief well founded ? 

Two schools at once present themselves. The one (that of 
Hume) declares that the belief has no good grounds; it is a 
matter, of custom. If I believe the sun will rise to-morrow, it is 
because it has always risen. If I believe that fire will burn in 


hume’s theory of causation. 


581 


future, it is because it has always burned. From habit I expect 
the future will resemble the past: I have no proof of it. 

The other school declares that this belief in causation “ is an 
intuitive conviction that the future will resemble the past.” This 
is the language of Reid and Stewart. Dr. Whewell would have 
us admit the belief as a fundamental idea—a necessary truth in¬ 
dependent of and superior to all experience. 

Both explanations we take to be very incompetent. Custom 
or habit can essentially have nothing whatever to do with it, be¬ 
cause our belief is as strong from a single instance as from a 
thousand. “ When many uniform instances appear,” says Hume, 
“ and the same object is always followed by the same event, we 
then begin to entertain the notion of cause and connection. We 
then feel a new sentiment, to wit, a customary connection in the 
thought between one object and its usual attendant; and this 
sentiment is the original of that idea which we seek for.” This 
is manifestly wrong. A single instance of one billiard-ball mov¬ 
ing another, suffices to originate the “sentiment,” without further 
repetition. Nor is there more truth in the assertion that the be¬ 
lief depends on “ conviction of the future resembling the past 
this explanation assumes that the general idea precedes the par¬ 
ticular idea. If we believe that similar effects will follow when¬ 
ever the same causes are in operation—if we believe that fire will 
burn, or that the sun will rise to-morrow—we are simply believing 
in our experience , and nothing more. We cannot help believing 
in our experience ; that is irresistible: but in this belief, the idea 
of either past or future does not enter. I do not believe that 
fire will burn because I believe that the future will resemble the 
past, but simply because my experience of fire is that it burns— 
that it has the power to burn. Take a simple illustration, trivial, 
if you will, but illustrative :—A child is presented with a bit ot 
sugar: the sugar is white, of a certain shape, and is solid ; his 
experience of the sugar is confined to these properties : he puts 
it in his mouth ; it is sweet, pleasant: his experience is extend¬ 
ed ; the sugar he now believes (knows) to be sweet and pleasant, 


582 


HUME. 


as well as white and solid.* Thus far experience is not tran¬ 
scended. Some days later, another piece of sugar is given him. 
Is it now necessary for him to have any “ intuitive conviction 
that the future will resemble the past”—any fundamental idea 
independent of experience—to make him believe that if he puts 

the sugar in his mouth it will taste sweet ? Not in the least: 
© 

he believes it is sweet, because he knows it is sweet—because 
his experience of sugar is that it is sweet. By no effort could 
he divest himself of the idea of its sweetness, because sweetness 
forms an integral part of his idea of the sugar. So we may say 
of the sun’s rising : it is part and parcel of our idea of the 
sun. So of one billiard-ball putting a second in motion : our 
experience of billiard-balls is that they put each other in mo¬ 
tion. 

Custom has primarily nothing to do with the belief. If we 
had only one experience of fire—if we saw it only once applied 
to a combustible substance—we should believe that it would 
burn, because our idea of fire would be the idea of a thing which 
burns. Custom has however, secondarily, some influence in cor¬ 
recting the tendency to attribute properties to things. Thus, a 
child sees a friend who gives him an apple. The next time the 
friend comes he is asked for an apple, because the idea of this 
friend is of a man who, amongst other properties, has that of 
giving apples. No apple is given, and this idea is destroyed. 
Similarly, when all our experience of things is confirmatory of 
our first experience, we may say that habit or custom induces us 
to attribute certain effects to certain causes. When our subse¬ 
quent experience contradicts our first experience, we cease to at¬ 
tribute those effects to those causes which we first experienced ; 

* It will perhaps seem strange that we should select sweetness as an ex¬ 
ample of causation. We selected it for its simplicity. No one will deny 
that the taste of sweetness is as much an effect caused by the sugar as pain 
is an effect caused by fire. But people are apt to overlook that causation is 
the result of the properties of one body acting upon the properties of an¬ 
other. They would call sweetness a quality in sugar : but the motion of a 
billiard-ball they say is caused by another ball. 



hume's theory of causation. 


588 


tins is only saying that our subsequent experience lias destroyed 
or altered the idea we formed at first. 

Remark how much confusion is spread over this subject by 
the inconsiderate introduction of the word belief. It is incor¬ 
rect to say that a man believes that fire will burn him if he puts 
his finger in it; he Jctioivs it. He will believe that it has burned 
some one else—he will believe in a proposition you make about 
fire, because belief is the assent to propositions: but to talk of 
his believing that sugar will be sweet, when he knows it is sweet, 
when he cannot think of it otherwise than as sweet; or that fire 
will burn when he knows it burns, is as improper as to say that 
he believes himself cold when he is cold. 

Only from this improper use of the word belief could the 
theory of fundamental ideas, or of “ an intuitive conviction that 
the future will resemble the past,” have stood its ground for a 
moment. If the proposition “Fire will burn paper” were put to 
any one, he would unquestionably believe it, because he has no 
other knowledge of the fire under those circumstances. The 
proposition is as evident to him as that two and two make four. 
Although, therefore, he may be said to believe in the proposition, 
“ Fire will burn paper,” he cannot properly be said to act upon 
belief when he attempts to light paper : he acts upon his knowl¬ 
edge. Metaphysicians argue as if the belief in the immediate 
result of an action were a belief in some implied proposition about 
the course of nature. It is really a reliance upon experience; 
nothing more. 

It is necessary to distinguish between belief in existence, and 
belief in propositions. It is inaccurate to say a man believes in 
his own existence, as if that were similar to his belief in a propo¬ 
sition. But though a man cannot believe in his own existence, 
simply because it is impossible for him to conceive himself as 
non-existent, he may believe that he will exist eternally, because 
that is a proposition, the converse of which is conceivable and 
maintainable. 

The primordial act of all thinking whatever, is, as I have ex 


HUME. 


oS4 

plained in the Introduction to this History, the making present 
to the mind of what is absent from the sense; and this, which 
connects all intellectual phenomena into one class, renders the 
accurate demarcation of them sometimes impossible, so insensi¬ 
bly does the one pass into the other. Thus when I say, “ I see 
it has rained,’’ because the wet streets make me infer that the 
wetness was caused by rain, my assertion is grounded on a men¬ 
tal re-presentation of the absent occurrence, precisely analogous 
to that which takes place when I infer the sweetness of the sugar 
before me, or perceive that the flower in Julia’s hair is a rose, or 
believe that the paper she holds close to the candle will infallibly 
ignite if paper and flame come in contact. In each case the in¬ 
ference, perception, or belief, is the re-presentation of facts form¬ 
erly present in my experience of rain, sugar, roses, and candles. 
Whenever I forget any of the attendant facts, i. e. fail to make 
them present, I can only form an incomplete conception of the 
thing about which I reason, or infer. Bad logic is imperfect re¬ 
presentation. In proportion to the complexity of a proposition 
will be the liability to error, because of the liability to suffer 
some of the attendant facts to drop out of sight. Thus the prop¬ 
osition w Fire will burn paper” is so simple, and accordant with 
daily experience, that assent to it is instantaneous ; but the prop¬ 
osition w Human life may extend over two centuries” is one im¬ 
plying so many facts which cannot be made present to the mind, 
because not lying within familiar experience, that instead of as¬ 
sent it produces denial, or at least doubt, which is suspension of 
belief, which again is the confessed inability to make all the facts 
present to the mind. That “ two and two make four” is the im¬ 
mediate and irresistible conclusion of every educated man : never- 

J / 

theless, this very man would pause before assenting to the prop¬ 
osition “ Eight times three hundred and ninety-six, make three 
thousand one hundred and sixty-eight,” because he would have 
to make present to his mind the successive steps of the calcula¬ 
tion, and this would demand an effort, great in proportion to his 
want of familiarity with calculations. 


hume’s theory of causation. 


585 


In spite of this identity of belief and perception, it is necessary 
for the perspicuity of discussion to discriminate the two, and I 
propose therefore to restrict the term belief to the assent to prop¬ 
ositions, and demarcate it from those direct inferences which 
are made in the presence of objects and have reference to them. 
I would say, we believe in the proposition “ Fire burns,” but 
know r the fact that the paper about to be thrust into flame will 
ignite. Such a discrimination of terms will be found useful in 
discussing causation. We shall thus see in w r hat respect assent 
to a proposition, complex in its elements, differs from the “ prac¬ 
tical belief” of mankind in particular facts—we shall separate 
the belief of the philosopher in the proposition “Every effect 
must have a cause,” from the belief of the child that the fire, 
w'hich yesterday burned paper, will burn it to-day. Both beliefs 
are grounded on and limited by experience; but the experience 
of the philosopher is distinguished from that of the child by its 
greater accumulation of analogous facts. The “necessity” and 
“universality” which, according to Ivant and Dr. Whewell, dis¬ 
tinguish the philosophical conception, and raise it above experi¬ 
ence, will be considered hereafter. For the present it is enough 
if we have reduced belief in causation (or in power) to experience 
of a direct kind, not separable from any other intellectual act, 
but allied to all other acts in being the mental re-presentation of 
phenomena formerly present in experience. And this will help 
us, perhaps, to reconcile the combatants who quarrel over the 
idea of “ power” in causation. 

Thus while it will be admitted by the one party that between 
two events, named respectively cause and effect, no nexus is per¬ 
ceived by us, over and above the mere fact of antecedence and 
sequence ; and that therefore Hume is right in saying—we only 
perceive this antecedence, and do not perceive the causal link; 
on the other hand it must be maintained, that between those 
two events there is a specific relation , a something which makes 
the one succeed the other, causing this particular effect rather 
than another; aud this subtle link it is which is the nexus con* 


586 


HUME. 


tended for; this relation it is which distinguishes a casual act 
from one of accidental sequence. There must be a peculiar rela¬ 
tion, or property, existing between oxygen and metals, otherwise 
metals never could be oxidized. The oxidation of iron is an 
effect like the ignition of paper; but it is an effect producible 
only through a specific relation or cause. To say that we can¬ 
not know this cause, cannot perceive this relation, and that 
antecedence and sequence are all that we can perceive, is only 
saying that we cannot penetrate beyond phenomena and their 
successions; but this is no more a ground for the denial of a 
causal nexus, than it is for the denial of an external world. 

All things necessarily stand related to all other things: some¬ 
times these relations are obtruded on our notice, because they 
pass from relations of coexistence into relations of succession, and 
we name them causes and effects; at other times they remain in 
the background of unremarked coexistence, and our unsolicited 
attention overlooks them; we do not then name them cause and 
effect. The carbonate of lime, which I see before me as marble, 
suggests to me in its inaction, no conception of power, or caus¬ 
ation, because my attention is not solicited by any successive re¬ 
lations; yet, if I had witnessed the action of the carbonic acid 
on the lime, which originally caused the two substances to unite 
and form marble, the passage from one state to another would 
have suggested the idea of some power at work. It is clear that 
there must be relations existing between the carbonic acid and 
the lime, which cause the two to remain united, as we see them 
in marble. We do not see these relations—we do not, therefore, 
see the cause—but we know the cause must be in operation all 
the while, although, in consequence of no changes taking place, 
we are not solicited to observe the operation. Hence it is that 
only successive phenomena are named causal; and hence is it 
that Hume was right in saying that en derniere analyse, invari¬ 
ableness of antecedence and sequence is all that experience tells 
us of causation; although he did not, I think, state his position 

clearlv, nor discern its real basis. 

* 7 


hume's theory of causation. 587 

This conception of causation, as the direct relation between 
Huy two phenomena, whether coexistent or successive, accords 
with the fact that what is called the effect is itself but the union 
of two causes—the oxygen and the metal co-operate to form an 
oxide; the group of facts which we designate as the antecedent, 
combines with the group of facts called the sequent; as when we 
say that “ Henry I. died of eating lampreysby which we mean, 
that in a certain condition of his organism the introduction of 
lampreys was the antecedent to a whole series of sequences ter¬ 
minating in death; although we are perfectly aware that the 
salmon was not the “ cause,” but only one integer in the sum of 
causes. The difficulty in fixing upon a true cause is this very 
complexity of relations: only when we can be said to know all 
the elements of a group, can we isolate one to estimate its in¬ 
fluence. 

I have endeavored to reconcile the two contending parties on 
this perplexing question, and for all further discussion must refer 
to John Mill’s chapter in his System of Logic, where, however, 
there is a passage which seems to me quite contrary to the doc¬ 
trine he upholds. I allude to his strictures on the dogma cessante 
causa cessat et effectus. 11 A coup de soleil gives a man a brain- 
fever : will the fever go off as soon as he is moved out of the 
sunshine? A sword is run through his body: must the sword 
remain in his body in order that he may continue dead ?”* 
Surely this argument is tenable only by those who confound a 
cause with the whole group of conditions which precede, and the 
effect with the whole group of conditions which succeed; and 
is not tenable by those who hold that cause and effect are simply 
antecedent and sequent. The solar rays striking on the man’s 
head produce a disturbance in the circulation, which in its turn 
becomes the antecedent to a congestion of the blood-vessels in the 
brain, which becomes a brain-fever; instead of one succession of 
cause and effect, w T e have here a series of such successions; and 


* Vol. i. p. 413. 



5S8 


HUME. 


if we could analvze the various stages of the sun-stroke, we 
should find that each effect did cease on the cessation of the 
cause; indeed, if an effect be nothing but the sequent of an an¬ 
tecedent—and not the product of some creative power in the 
cause—it must depend for its existence on the presence of the 
antecedent. 

Hume’s theory of causation set Kant speculating on the con¬ 
stituent elements of cognition; but before we follow out the de¬ 
velopment of Philosophy in that direction, it will be necessary to 
trace the further development of Locke’s influence in other di¬ 
rections. 


SIXTH EPOCH. 


THE ORIGIN OF KNOWLEDGE REFERRED TO SENSATION BY 
THE CONFUSION OF TEIOUGHT WITH FEELING: THE SEN- 
SATIONAL SCHOOL. 


CHAPTER I. 

CONDILLAC. 

§ I. Life of Condillac. 

Etienne De Condillac was born at Grenoble, in 1715. His 
life was passed mainly in study, and was not varied by any of 
those incidents which give interest and romance to biography. 
He published his first work, Essai sur V Origine des Connoissances 
Humaines , in 1746. Three years after, his Traite des Systemes. 
His other works followed rapidly; and established for him such 
a reputation, that he was appointed tutor to the Prince of Parma, 
and for whose instruction he wrote the Cours d\Etudes. In 
1768 the capricious doors of the Academie FranQaise were 
opened to him ; but once elected a member, he never after at¬ 
tended any of its sittings. He published his Logique in his old 
age, and left behind him his Langue des Calculs. He died in 
1780. 

§ II. Condillac’s System. 

We have seen how Idealism and skepticism grew out of the 
doctrines respecting the origin of knowledge. We have now to 
6ee the growth of the “ Sensational School.” 

The success which Locke met with in France is well known. 



590 


CONDILLAC. 


For a whole century the countrymen of Descartes extolled the 
English philosopher, little suspecting how that philosopher would 
have disclaimed their homage, could he have witnessed it. Con¬ 
dillac is the acknowledged representative of Locke in France. 
When his first work, entitled Essai sur V Origine des Connois- 
sauces Humaines , appeared, he had no notion of simplifying 
Locke by reducing all Knowledge to Sensation. He was a 
modest Lockeist, and laid down as the fundamental principle, 
that “ sensations and the operations of the mind are the mate¬ 
rials of all our knowledge—materials which reflection sets in ac¬ 
tion by seeking their combinations and relations.” (Chap. i. § 5.) 

In 1754 appeared his celebrated work, the Traite des Sensa¬ 
tions. In it he quits Locke’s principle for that of Gassendi and 
Hobbes. “ The chief object of this work,” he says, “ is to show 
how all our knowledge and all our faculties are derived from the 
senses; or, to speak more accurately, from sensations.” The in¬ 
clusion of “our faculties,” as well as our ideas, in this sensuous 
origin, is, however, due entirely to Condillac. Hobbes never 
thought of such a “ simplification.” The divergence from Locke 
is obvious : instead of the two sources of ideas, recognized in the 
Essay on Human Understanding, it assumes one source only— 
Sensation; instead of mind, with certain elementary faculties, it 
assumes one elementary faculty—that of Sensibility—out of 
which all the faculties are evolved by the action of external ob¬ 
jects on the senses. Nor was this a mere slip of Condillac’s pen : 
the error is radical; it constitutes the peculiarity of his system. 
Speaking of various philosophers, and quoting, with praise, the 
maxim attributed to Aristotle, that “Nothing is in the intellect 
which was not previously in the senses,” he adds, “ Immediately 
after Aristotle comes Locke; for the other philosophers who have 
written on this subject are not worthy of mention. This Eng¬ 
lishman has certainly thrown great light on the subject, but he 
has left some obscurity. . . . All the faculties of the soul ap¬ 
peared to him to be innate qualities, and he never suspected they 
might be derived from sensation itself.” 


CONDILLAC'S SYSTEM. 


591 


Certainly, Locke never suspected any thing of the kind, and 
would loudly have repudiated it, had any one suggested such a 
simplification of the psychological problem. He might have 
asked Condillac, why is it no Ape having the five senses of Man 
has ever yet been educated as a Man ? and if faculties are noth¬ 
ing but sensations, why are the faculties of the Ape so remark¬ 
ably inferior, when the senses, some of them at least, are so 
remarkably superior to those of Man ? We find, on the one 
hand, animals having senses like those of man, but not having 
the faculties of man; we find, on the other hand, men deficient 
in certain senses—sight, hearing, taste, or smell—who, so far 
from being deficient in mental faculties, are remarkable for their 
high endowments: a striking example of which is the case of 
Laura Bridgman, born blind, deaf, and dumb. Nay, among men 
having all the senses in activity, we find the greatest disparities 
in mental faculty; and we do not find that the men whose sen¬ 
ses are the most susceptible and active, are the men whose intel¬ 
lectual faculties are the most developed; which is strange, if the 
faculties are nothing but sensations. How does Condillac ex- 
plain the familiar fact of Idiots being in full possession of their 
senses ? When he makes his famous Statue grow into an Intel¬ 
ligence, by the gradual evolution of one sense after the other, it 
never occurs to him that he tacitly admits the presence of the 
very mind which is said to be evolved; since in the absence ot 
that mind the senses will not elevate the statue one inch above 
idiocy. 

Had Condillac been surveying the animal series, and endeavor¬ 
ing to trace the gradual development of Sensibility throughout 
that series, he might have maintained, with some philosophical 
coo-encv, that the various faculties were the derivative products 
of sensation. But he had no such conception. He looked upon 
the mind as a tabula rasa , a blank page on which sensations wrote 
certain characters; and instead of regarding the mind in the 
light of an organism, the food of which was furnished by the 
senses, he regarded it as a simple granary, in which the grain, on 


592 


CONDILLAC. 


entering, “transformed itself” into bread, oven, and baker. He 
thought the senses created the faculties and were the faculties. 
He might as well have said that exercise creates the faculty of 
running. The child cannot run till he has exercised his limbs; 
but the exercise does not give him the limbs, it only calls them 
into action. 

Condillac is right in saying that we are not born with the 
mental faculties developed (a point to be touched upon here¬ 
after), but he is wrong in saying that these faculties are only 
sensations. And when he endeavored to construct the mind and 
its faculties out of transformed sensations , he never once sus¬ 
pected that the faculty of transformation —that which transforms 
—could not be itself a sensation. It is very easy to imagine 
transformed sensations; but the sensations do not, we presume, 
transform themselves. What is it that transforms them ? The 
mind ? Not so. The mind is the aggregate of our mental 
states, faculties, etc.; the mind is made up of “ transformed sen¬ 
sations,” and cannot, therefore, be the transforming power. We 
return to the charge, and demand, What is it which trans¬ 
forms ? Condillac has no answer. All he can say is, what he 
says over and over again, that our faculties are transformed sen¬ 
sations. Hear him: 

“Locke distinguishes two sources of ideas, sense and reflection. 
It would be more exact to recognize but one; first, because re¬ 
flection is, in its principle, nothing but sensation itself; secondly, 
because it is less a source of ideas than a canal through which 
they flow from sense. 

“ This inexactitude, slight as it may seem, has thrown much 
obscurity over his system. He contents himself with recognizing 
that the soul perceives, thinks, doubts, believes, reasons, wills, 
reflects; that we are convinced of the existence of these opera¬ 
tions, because we find them in ourselves, and they contribute to 
the progress of our knowledge; but he did not perceive the ne¬ 
cessity of discovering their origin and the principle of their gem 
eration—he did not suspect that they might only be acquired 


Condillac’s system. 


593 


* habits; he seems to have regarded them as innate, and he says 
only that they may be perfected by exercise.”* 

This is far enough from Locke,f who would have been amazed 
to hear that “judgment, reflection, the passions, in a word, all 
the faculties of the mind, are nothing but sensation which trans¬ 
forms itself differently (qui se transforme difleremment).” 

As it is curious to see how sensation transforms itself into these 
faculties, we will translate Condillac’s account. “ If a multitude 
of sensations operate at the same time with the same degree of 
vivacity, or nearly so, man is then only an animal that feels; ex¬ 
perience suffices to convince us that then the multitude of im¬ 
pressions takes away all activity from the mind. But let only 
one sensation subsist, or without entirely dismissing the others, 
let us only diminish their force; the mind is at once occupied 
more particularly with the sensation which preserves its vivacity, 
and that sensation becomes attention , without its being necessary 
for us to suppose any thing else in the mind . If a new sensation 
acquire greater vivacity than the former, it will become in its 
turn attention. But the greater the force which the former had, 
the deeper the impression made on us, and the longer it is pre¬ 
served. Experience proves this. Our capacity of sensation is 
therefore divided into the sensation we have had, and the sensa¬ 
tion which we now have; we perceive them both at once, but 
we perceive them differently: the one seems as past, the other 
as present. The name of sensation designates the impression 
actually made upon our senses; and it takes that of memory 
when it presents itself to us as a sensation which has formerly 
been felt. Memory, therefore, is only the transformed sensation. 
When there is double attention, there is comparison; for to be 

* Extrait raissonne da Traite des Sensations: (Euvres de Condillac (1803), 

iv. 13. 

t It would be idle to refute here the vulgar notion that Condillac perfected 
Locke’s principles; or, as M. Cousin absurdly says, that Locke’s Essay was 
the rough sketch ( ebauche ) of wdiich the Traite dcs Sensations is the per¬ 
fected picture; such a notion can be entertained only by those who blindly 
accept traditionary judgments. The brief exposition we shall give of Con¬ 
dillac is a sufficient answer to all such assertions. 



59d 


CONDILLAC. 


attentive to two ideas or to compare them, is the same thing 
But we cannot compare them without perceiving some difference 
or some resemblance between them: to perceive such relations, 
is to judge. The acts of comparing and judging are therefore 
only attention; it is thus that sensation becomes successively at¬ 
tention, comparison, judgment.” 

The other faculties are explained in a similar w T ay, but we 
need quote no more. That such a system should ever have at¬ 
tained the favor it did, is a striking example of the facility with 
which men may be misled by an artful use of words. 

Condillac said that science is only a well-constructed language 
(une langue bien faite ); so much did he rely upon precision in 
words. Nor is this inexplicable in a man who fancied he had re¬ 
duced the analysis of mind to its simplest elements by merely 
naming them differently. It is, however, as absurd to call ideas 
sensations because the ideas were originated by sensations, as it 
would be to call reasoning observation, because reasoning is 
founded on observation. The only excuse for the error is in the 
common, but false, supposition that ideas are faint impressions. 
They are not impressions at all. Condillac says that an idea is 
a remembered sensation, and this remembrance is only a lesser 
degree of vivacity in the sensation. We answer that the idea is 
nothing of the kind; so fir from being the sensation in a lesser 
degree, it is not the sensation at all; it is altogether different 
from the sensation. Although every man who has experienced 
toothache, can have a very distinct idea of it (in other words, he 
can think of, and talk of toothache), we defy him to detect in 
his idea any repetition of the sensation. Nor is this wonderful; 
sensation is the product of a distinct part of the nervous system, 
the senses; ideas are the product of another distinct part of 
the nervous system, the cerebrum : sensation is feeling , thought 
is thinking. To suppose feeling and thinking are the same (al¬ 
though both may come under the term feeling, by giving the 
word some new general signification), is an absurdity reserved 
tor the Sensational School, the last and not the least illustrious 


Condillac’s system. 


595 


of whom, M. Destutt de Tracy, consolidated it into an aphorism : 
penser c'est sentir. 

The ambiguities of language have in this case been assisted 
by the nature of our sensations. Thus all our visual ideas, inas¬ 
much as they assume shape, do seem like faint sensations; the 
reason is, that although it is a very different thing to look at the 
sun and to think of it, yet in thinking, our idea corresponds, in 
some measure, with our sensation : the idea is of a round, yellow, 
luminous body, and is not improperly called an image of the sun. 
If it is an image of the sun, we easily conclude that it is a faint 
copy of our sensation. But. in the case of other senses, there is 
no difficulty in detecting the error. When we say that we can 
recall the sensation of hunger, we verbally confound our power of 
thinking a thing, with our power of feeling it. There is, in truth, 
a generic distinction between Thought and Sensation, which it 
is fatal to overlook; nor could it have been overlooked but for 
the introduction and adoption of that much-abused word “ idea,” 
instead of thought. 

I do not believe we can recover any sensation at all, but only 
the ideal effect of the sensation. Mr. Bain, who of all psychol¬ 
ogists, as it appears to me, has approached nearest to the truth, 
here remarks, that the “ exact tone of feeling, the precise inward 
sensation due to a state of hunger, is almost irrecoverable and 
unimaginable in a state of comfortable repletion.” I believe it 
to be utterly irrecoverable. “ But,” he adds, “ the uneasy move¬ 
ments, the fretful tones, the language of complaint, are all easy 
to recall; they belong to the more intellectual part of the sys¬ 
tem ; and by these we can recover some portion of the total fact, 
which is also just about as much as we can communicate to a- ; 
second person. The digestive state for the time being, rules the- 
tone of sensation so effectually, that we cannot, by any effort,, 
restore the currents due to an entirely opposite state; we can; 
only recover the more revivable accompaniments.”* The reason 


* The Senses and the Intellect , p. 337. 
41 




596 


CONDILLAC. 


of this I take to be simply the impossibility of displacing a sen 
sation (e. g. that of repletion) by an idea. The sensation of hun¬ 
ger was due to a peculiar stimulus of the nervous system; so 
long as that stimulus was present, the sensation was present; 
when another stimulus replaced it, another sensation succeeded, 
and in the presence of that stimulus no other sensation is recov¬ 
erable. The “revivable accompaniments” were not sensations, 
but the sequences of sensations, ideal elements. When Mr. Bain 
contrasts the sense of sight with the sense of hunger, and says 
“ that we can recover a picture or vision of fancy almost as ex¬ 
actly as we saw it, though not so strongly,” and thinks that this 
gives to the sense of sight its “ intellectual character,” he appears 
to me to overlook the generic distinction between Sensation and 
Thought, a distinction which Condillac and his school svstemat- 
ically set aside. “ We can repossess ourselves,” he adds, “ of the 
exact scene as it lay to the eye; in fact the sensation itself is the 
most retainable part of the xchole .” I cannot but think that, if 
Mr. Bain will reconsider this statement, he will admit that the 
sensation itself is precisely the part which is not retainable, not 
recoverable; for although the image of the landscape beheld in 
memory is like the actual scene which we gazed upon—or, in 
more accurate lano-uasre, although we are similarlv affected bv 
the remembrance as by the original stimulus—yet a psychologist 
of Mr. Bain's rank does not need to be told that the landscape 
in perception is constituted by a variety of intellectual inferences 
—all its relations of space, form, solidity, etc., being purely in¬ 
tellectual elements, and these only are the elements present in 
the remembrance, the actual sensations not being present at all. 
What therefore is recoverable, is the purely intellectual part of 
the whole; what is irrecoverable, the sensational; preciselv as 
in the case of hunger: we can recall the effects of hunger, even 
when quietly digesting dinner, but we cannot recall the sensation 
of hunger. 

The poiut in dispute is so important, and is so intimately 
bound up with the whole doctrine of the Sensational School, 


Condillac’s system. 


597 


forming indeed the battle-ground of all psychological doctrine, 
that we must consider it with more than a passing attention. 
The confusion of Sensation with Ideatiou, or Thought, is Con¬ 
dillac’s systematic error; but it is an error from which few, if 
any writers, even of the spiritualist schools, have been free. Ex¬ 
plicitly, or implicitly, these two phenomena have been regarded 
as two aspects of the same thing. The rigorous demarcation of 
Sensation as one process, from Ideation as another process,— 
each dependent on its separate nervous centre,—will be found in 
no psychological treatise. Nevertheless, Comparative Anatomy 
has succeeded in demonstrating the independence of the organs 
of Sense, and the Brain-proper; although no one has yet suc¬ 
ceeded in detecting the true relations which connect these inde¬ 
pendent centres, and make them act together. We know that 
the brain is as much an addition to the organs of Sense as these 
organs are additions to the nervous system of the simpler ani¬ 
mals. Low down in the animal scale we can detect no trace at 
all of a nervous system ; ascending a few steps, we detect a sim¬ 
ple ganglion with its prolongations ; ascending higher, we detect 
a more complex arrangement of ganglia, and rudimentary organs 
of Sense; ascending still higher and higher, we detect more 
complex organs of Sense, and a rudimentary Brain ; till at last 
we arrive at man, with his complex organs and his complex 
Brain. But so independent is the Brain, that even in the 
human species cases occur of “ anencephalous monsters,” that 
is to say, children bora without any Brain whatever; and 
these children breathe, suck, cry, aud struggle, like other 
children. 

Further, it is ascertained that the function of this Brain (or 
Cerebrum) is Thought—or, as James Mill, with a nice sense of 
utility, proposed to call it, Ideation. Granting this, we grant 
that the functions Sensation and Ideation are as independent as 
the organs of which they are the functions; and although Idea¬ 
tion is organically connected with Sensation, yet not more so 
than muscular motion is connected with Sensation. Neither the 


598 


CONDILLAC. 


anatomical nor the psychological connections of the two have 
been accurately discriminated, but the broad fact of their inde¬ 
pendence suffices for my present argument; which is merely to 
establish the position that the organs of Sense are competent 
to Sensation, without the addition of a Brain ; and that the 
Brain, although constantly set into action by the organs of 
Sense, is in itself a separate centre, and the seat of specific 
actions.* 

It is customary to speak of the organs of Sense as if they were 
simple organs ; we must not therefore innovate in this matter, 
although we find it needful to remind the reader that each spe¬ 
cial sense is really the function of a complex apparatus of organs. 
The apparatus of Sight, for example, may be separated into at 
least three parts :—1st, for the reception of impressions of light; 
2d, for the transmission of those impressions ; 3d, for the sensa¬ 
tion. Of these the last need only here be specially considered, 
and may be called the Sensational Centre .| In this centre the 
external stimulus becomes a sensation ; from this centre the sen¬ 
sation is generally (not always) propagated to the cerebrum, 
which in turn may propagate the influence to the centre of mus¬ 
cular motion, or elsewhere. 

Every sense, whether it be one of the five special senses, or of 
the so-called “ organic senses” (such as those of the alimentary 
canal or of muscular activity), has its own special centre, or sen- 
sorium ; but there seems to be no ground for assuming, with 
Unzer and Prochaska, the existence of any one general sensori- 
um , to which these all converge ; and I shall speak therefore of 
the Sensational Centres as the seats of sensations derived from 


* See this point illustrated in detail by Unzer and Prochaska, in their 
treatises translated for the Pay Society by Dr. Laycock. 

f I would call it sensory ganglion, if that did not presuppose the existence 
of a distinct ganglion, anatomically separable in the higher animals, as it is 
in those lower animals which have nothing but sensory ganglia. At present, 
however, science does not warrant such a statement otherwise than as an 
hypothesis. Besides, I include the spinal chord among the general Sensa¬ 
tional Centres. Compare Prochaska, p. 430. 



Condillac’s system. 


599 


the stimuli which act on the organs of sense. Considered as 
Sensational Centres, they are perfectly independent of the Brain ; 
they may and do act without implicating the Brain, for they will 
act when the Brain is absent: a bird deprived of its cerebrum 
manifests unequivocal symptoms of being sensitive to light* sound, 
etc. But in the normal state of the organism these centres are 
intimately connected with the Brain ; and the stimuli which 
affect them directly, indirectly affect the Brain. Light, imping¬ 
ing on the retina, determines a change in the optic Sensational 
Centre ; this change is usually propagated to the cerebrum ; and 
as the first change was a sensation, so is the second an idea: this 
idea may excite other ideas, or it may be so faint in its influence 
as to be almost immediately absorbed, and then we are said to 
be “ scarcely conscious” of the sensation—meaning that we 
thought very little about it: an example of which is the little 
attention we pay to the clock striking when we are engaged in 
study, if the fact is indifferent to us ; we hear it, but think not 
of it the next moment; if on the other hand the striking of the 
clock is not indifferent to us, the various thoughts which it 
awakens make us eminently “ conscious of the sensation.” In 
the heat of battle, a sword passes through a man’s arm, and 
nevertheless the wound is followed by no pain or “ conscious¬ 
ness the stimulus which under ordinary circumstances would 
have been propagated from a Sensational Centre, and thence 
radiating to the cerebrum, would have roused up manifold ideas, 
namely, of consequences, what was necessary to be done, etc., is 
prevented from so radiating, and is not carried beyond the Sen¬ 
sational Centre. 

Not only can we have sensations without being conscious ot 
them— i. e. without thinking about them; we can also think with 
perfect freedom when all the Sensational Centres (except those 
of organic life) are unaffected by any stimulus, i. e . when we have 
no sensations. We do so when awake in bed during the stillness 
of night: the senses are in repose, the Brain is active. 

Thus is the independence of Ideation and Sensation proved 


600 


CONDILLAC. 


psychologically and anatomically ; and with this proof we de 
stroy the basis of Condillac’s doctrine. But even on purely 
metaphysical grounds w r e may reject his theory of the origin of 
knowledge. It rests on two positions ;—the first is the reduction 
of all knowledge to sensation ; the second is the dogma of our 
faculties not beinjy innate. The first is the doctrine of Gassendi 
and Hobbes. It is thus stated by Diderot, one of Condillac’s 
most celebrated pupils :—“ Every idea must necessarily, when 
brought to its state of ultimate decomposition, resolve itself into 
a sensible representation or picture ; and since every thing in 
our understanding has been introduced there by the channel of 
sensation, whatever proceeds out of the understanding is either 
chimerical or must be able, in returning by the same road, to re¬ 
establish itself according to its sensible archetype. Hence an 
important rule in philosophy, That every expression which can¬ 
not find an external and a sensible object to which it can thus 
establish its affinity, is destitute of signification.”* 

Those who maintain sensuous experience to be the basis of all 
knowledge, will of course assent to the position that every one 
of our ideas can be decomposed into sensuous elements; but 
ideas themselves are not sensations, they are formed from sensa¬ 
tions, and are not sensible pictures. The least experience is suf¬ 
ficient to convince us that w T e have many ideas which cannot be 
reduced to any sensible picture whatever; or, to prevent any of 
the ambiguity which belongs to the word “ idea,” let us rather 
say we have many thoughts which cannot be reduced to any 
sensible picture. We can think of a sound without any power 
of forming a picture of sound; we can think of virtue or good¬ 
ness, of patriotism or scoundrelism, without being able to form 
mental pictures of these ideas. 

Now for the second point: Condillac, we believe, was the first 
to catch a glimpse of the important truth that our faculties are 
not innate—are not even connate; but he bungled in attempting 


* Quoted by Dugald Stewart, Philosophical Essays , p. 16 G. 



condillac's system. 


001 


to trace the genesis of these faculties. That men are not born 
with the powers of reasoning, remembering, imagining, is a prop¬ 
osition which will meet with very little credit at first. A little 
experience and reflection however show us that as the child cer¬ 
tainly cannot reason, remember, or imagine, these being faculties 
subsequently and slowly developed, we must conclude that the 
mental faculties are only potentially in the new-born child. The 
baby can no more reason than he can talk. He learns to do 
both ; and, before he can learn them, the powers of his mind no 
less than the muscles of his vocal organs must grow, be devel¬ 
oped, and strengthened by exercise. Man is no more born with 
reason than an acorn is born an oak. The grown man has rea¬ 
son, as every oak has branches and foliage. But the infant and 
the acorn, though they contain that within them which, under 
fitting circumstances, will be developed into reason in the one, 
and foliage in the other, cannot be said to have as yet either 
reason or foliage. 

This is an important discovery, and yet one which is appa¬ 
rently obvious, and obtruded upon our experience by the daily 
observation of children. Condillac has the merit of having first 
seen it; but he saw it very imperfectly, and failed altogether to 
make any good use of it. As an example: He who told us 
that our faculties were not innate, but were “ acquired habits,” 
tells us, when he comes to the genesis of those faculties, that 
they spring into existence at once—are born full-grown—the 
acorn suddenly leaps into an oak. Thus his famous statue has 
Memory, Judgment, Desire, etc., as soon as it has Sensations. 
This is enough to show that if Condillac discovered an important 
fact, he only stumbled over it, and knew not its significance.* 
Let us hope that, if England is to produce any new system of r 
Psychology, this most important point will not be overlooked:: 
the growth and development of our faculties is as much a park 

* The only person who, to our knowledge, has made any use of this fact,, 
is Dr. Beneke, who has made it the basis of his whole philosophy. See hia 
Neut Psychologies also the Lehrltucli der Psychologic (Beilin, 1845). 



002 


CONDILLAC. 


of Psychology, as the growth and development of our organs is 
a part of Biology.* 

Condillac has made hut a poor figure in our pages; let us 
hasten to add, that although his fundamental positions are erro¬ 
neous, his worts display considerable merits both in manner and 
matter. Man] valuable remarks, and some good analyses, may 
be found in hi; writings; and the style is admirably clear. He 
departed so wit dy from Locke, that it seems strange he should 
ever have been considered as a disciple. But we have express 
testimony to the fact that he w r as Locke’s disciple; and if we 
consider for a moment the great stress which Locke always placed 
upon the sensuous origin of our knowledge—that being the point 
he wished to bring prominently forward, because his precursors 
had neglected it—we shall easily conceive how Condillac might 
have been more impressed wdth that part of the system than 
with the other, which Locke had rather indicated than developed. 
Moreover it w T as Locke’s object to prove the mind to be a tabula 
rasa , in order to disprove innate ideas. This ouce being granted, 
it was easy to fall into the error of Condillac’s “ simplification.” 

Condillac was clear, but much of his clearness was owing to 
his shallowness; much of the simplicity w r as owing to meagre¬ 
ness. He tried to construct Psychology upon no firmer basis 
than that adopted by the metaphysicians whom he opposed. 
Analysis of mental operations and merely verbal distinctions had 
been powerless in the hands of his precursors, nor were they 
powerful in his. In many subordinate matters he improved on 
them; some of his analyses were better ; many of his verbal dis¬ 
tinctions were useful; but he had no true psychological Method, 
and could found no desirable system. The idea of connecting 
Psychology with Biology had not yet been distinctly conceived. 
Although the brain was universally held to be the “organ” of 
the mind, the mind was, by the strangest of oversights, not re- 


* Since this was written Mr. Ilerbet Spencer has expounded the develop¬ 
ment of the faculties in his very remarkable Principles of Psychology 
(1S55). 



hartley’s life. 


603 


garded as tlie function of that organ ;* consequently no one 
thought of connecting the study of the mind with the study of 
the nervous system; no one thought of a physiological basis as 
indispensable to psychological science. We shall see hereafter 
what attempts have been made in this direction. The first step 
may be said to have been taken by Hartley. 


CHAPTER II. 

HARTLEY. 

§ I. Life of Hartley. 

David Hartley, the son of a Yorkshire clergyman, was born 
on the 30th of August, 1*705. He went to Cambridge at fifteen, 
and became a Fellow of Jesus College. Originally destined for 
the Church, he had scruples about signing the Thirty-nine Arti¬ 
cles, and gave up the Church for Medicine, which he subsequently 
practised with great success. 

When only twenty-five years of age he conceived the design 
and commenced the execution of his celebrated Observations on 
Man , his Frame , his Duty, and his Expectations , led thereto, as 
he tells us in the Preface, by hearing that “ the Rev. Mr. Gay 
had asserted the possibility of deducing all our intellectual 
pleasures and pains from association.” Mr. Gay published his 
views in a dissertation prefixed to Law’s translation of King On 
the Origin of Evil; but although Hartley acknowledges having 

* I may here enter a brief caveat against the conclusion that I hold the 
“mind to be the function of the brain.” This is no place to argue so wide 
a question; and I content myself with saying, that in the crude form in 
which that opinion is frequently presented, I do not agree. Ideation I hold 
to be one function of the brain; but Mind is something more general than 
this special function of Ideation ; and the brain has other functions besides 
Ideation, other functions than any usually called mental. 




GOT 


HARTLEY. 


derived the suggestion from Gay, it is clear to all readers of his 
work, that he had thoroughly mastered, and made his own, the 
principle of Association as the primary law of intellectual com¬ 
bination. Hartley did not publish his Observations till 1748, 
eighteen years after the scheme was first laid. The year before, 
according to Dr. Parr, he published a small treatise as a precur¬ 
sor to this work. “You will be astonished to hear,” Dr. Parr 
writes to Dugald Stewart,* “ that in this book, instead of the 
Doctrine of Necessity, Hartley openly declares for the indifference 
of the will, as maintained by Archbishop King.” And the reader 
will be astonished to hear that Hartley does no such thing! 
Dugald Stewart, who had not seen the work referred to, remarks 
that “ it is curious that, in the course of a year, Hartley’s opin¬ 
ions on so very essential a point should have undergone a com¬ 
plete changestill more curious, however, that Dr. Parr should 
have read the work and discovered in it such a mare’s-nest. The 
tract in question is reprinted in the volume of Meta,'physical 
Tracts by English Philosophers of the Eighteenth Century . Pre¬ 
pared for the Press by the late Pev. Samuel Parr , D.D. London , 
1837—a volume precious to metaphysical students, because it con¬ 
tains Collier’s Claris Universalis and Specimen of True Philosophy . 
If the reader will turn to the third of these tracts, Conjectures 
queedam de Sensu, Motu , et Idearum Generatione , without date, 
he will find that it is nothing more nor less than an abstract, in 
Latin, of the first part of Hartley’s Observations ; and that the 
question of Free-will is nowhere opened in it. I can only sup¬ 
pose that Dr. Parr, unacquainted with physiological speculation^, 
was misled by the admirable discussion of automatic and volun¬ 
tary actions (pp. 31-35), into the notion that Hartley there es¬ 
poused the doctrine of free-will; but I am surprised that Sir W. 
Hamilton should have allowed the error to pass uncorrected in 
bis edition of Stewart’s Dissertation. 

Hartley died on the 25th of August, 1757, aged fifty-two, and 


* Stewart’s Dissertation , part ii. p. 355 of Hamilton’s edition. 



hartley’s system. 


605 


ieft a name so distinguished for piety and goodness, that it in a 
great measure shielded his doctrines from the reprobation they 
have often incurred when promulgated by others. 

§ II. Hartley’s System. 

Combining a suggestion thrown out by Newton at the end of his 
Principle/., and in the questions annexed to his Optics , respecting 
vibrations of an ether as the cause of sensation, with the doctrine 
of Locke respecting Association of Ideas, Hartley produced a 
system of Psychology, which is historically curious as the first 
attempt to explain psychological phenomena on physiological 
principles. If not worth much as a contribution to Philosophy, 
it is very noticeable as an effort to connect intellectual with phys¬ 
ical phenomena; and, however subsequent writers may have rid¬ 
iculed, not without excuse, the vibrations and vibratiuncles which 
Hartley substituted for the old metaphysical conceptions, it 
is certain that his attempt to explain the phenomena physio¬ 
logically, has very much influenced the thoughts of succeeding 
speculators. 

“Man,” he says, “consists of two parts, body and mind.” 
Does he mean by this to proclaim the existence of a distinct, 
immaterial entity superadded to the body? According to the 
terms of his definition, on the first page of his work, this seems 
to be his intention; for he defines it as “that substance, agent, 
principle, etc., to which we refer the sensations, ideas, pleasures, 
pains, and voluntary motions.” Yet the whole system of vibra¬ 
tions seems to imply the contrary; and at the close of the first 
part of his work, he declares that he holds himself aloof from 
the question altogether. He will not deny the immateriality of 
mind : “ On the contrary, I see clearly, and acknowledge readily, 
that matter and motion, however subtly divided, yield nothing 
more than matter and motion still. But then neither would I 
affirm that this consideration affords a proof of the soul’s imma¬ 
teriality.” He thinks, with Locke, that it is quite possible the 
Creator should have endowed matter with sensation ; but he will 


606 


HARTLEY. 


not undertake to affirm it as a truth. “ It is sufficient for me 
that there is a certain connection, of one kind or other, between 
the sensations of the soul, and the motions excited in the medul¬ 
lary substance of the brain.”* A more rigorous logic would 
have forced him into a more decided opinion; for this question 
of the soul’s immateriality is one vitally affecting the system of 
vibrations; and his adversaries have had little difficulty in show¬ 
ing the insufficiency of “vibrations” to explain the phenomena 
of an immaterial mind. Between the immaterial principle and 
these material vibrations, there is an impassable gulf; let the 
other vibrate never so rhythmically, it always remains “ vibrating 
ether,” it cannot become “ sensation,” “ thoughtnor does Hart¬ 
ley bridge over the gulf by the assumption of an “ infinitesimal 
elementary body intermediate between the soul and the gross 
body,” to which, and from which, the vibrations of the nerves 
are communicated; the radical difficulty remains the same. 

It may be objected, perhaps, that those who point out the de¬ 
fect in Hartley’s hypothesis are themselves open to a similar 
charge, since they assume an immaterial principle to be effected 
by a material change, and assume the mind to be in connection 
with the body, following its alterations. But there is this differ¬ 
ence between them and Hartley : they do not pretend to explain 
how mind is affected by body; he does. They accept, as an ulti¬ 
mate fact, what he attempts to elucidate; and it is his elucida¬ 
tion which they refuse to acknowledge. 

And we must agree with them in rejecting the hypothesis 
which Hartley proposes; for it is not only incompetent to ex¬ 
plain the phenomena, but it is also one of those ingenuities inca¬ 
pable of really serving the purpose of a good hypothesis, because 
in itself wholly incapable of verification. 

His first proposition is that “ The white medullary substance 
of the brain, spinal marrow, and the nerves proceeding from 


* Compare also Scholium to Prop. 5 (vol. i. p. 33) and Conjectural qucedam 
dc Sensu , etc., p. 41. 



hartley’s system. 


607 


them, is the immediate instrument of sensation and motion.” 
Modern physiologists maintain precisely the reverse of this, de¬ 
claring the gray matter to be the specific seat of sensation and 
intelligence. I may say, in passing, that both these positions 
seem to me erroneous in their exclusiveness ; and that the white 
as w r ell as the gray substance must be present, just as the zinc 
and copper plates must both be present in the galvanic battery. 

Hartley continues : “ External objects impressed upon the 
senses occasion, first in the nerves on which they are impressed, 
and then in the brain, Vibrations of the small—or, as any one 
may say, infinitesimal—medullary particles. These Vibrations 
are motions backwards and forwards, of the same kind as the 
oscillation of pendulums, and the tremblings of the particles of 
sounding bodies. They must be conceived to be exceedingly 
short and small, so as not to have the least efficacy to disturb or 
move the whole bodies of the nerves or brain. For that the 
nerves themselves should vibrate like musical strings is highly 
absurd.” * 

It appears from a passage in the Contemplation de la Nature 
of the Genevese naturalist, Charles Bonnet, who published, al¬ 
most contemporaneously with Hartley, a doctrine almost indis¬ 
tinguishable from Hartley’s, that certain physiologists had already 
entertained the idea of sensation being the result of a nervous 
oscillation. “ IIs vouloient faire osciller les nerfs pour rendre 
raison des sensations; et les nerfs ne peuvent pas osciller. IIs 
sont mous, et nullement elastiques.”* Not the nerves, but the 
elastic ether which penetrates the nerves, is the seat of these os¬ 
cillations, according to Hartley and Bonnet. 

The greatest defect of this hypothesis is that it explains noth- 
.ng, while seeming to explain every thing. Sensation remains 
as mysterious as before. If we call sensations by the new name 
of vibrations, we have done nothing but change the name ; and 
if we say sensations are vibrations, or are produced by them, 
then the onus of proof rests on our shoulders. 


* Partie vii. ch. i. 




608 


HARTLEY. 


While acknowledging the defect of Hartley’s system, let us 
not forget its excellence. If the doctrine of Association was not 
first applied by him, it was by him first made a physiologico- 
psvchological basis. He not only applied it to the explanation 
of mental phenomena; he applied it, and with great ingenuity, 
to those physiological phenomena which still interest and per¬ 
plex philosophers, namely the voluntary and involuntary actions. 
His twenty-first proposition, and the elucidations which follow, 
deserve to be read, even in the present day ; and the following 
passage from the abstract published in Parr’s Tracts, is, in its 
pregnant brevity, worth quoting here. “ Discentes pulsare in- 
strumenta musica, primo movent digitos actione voluntaria, con- 
nectentes interea Ideas, imperiaque Animse, lios motus lente 
excitantia, cum aspectu cliaracterum musicorum. Continuato hoc 
processu, accedunt indies, propius propiusque ad se invicem, 
motus digitorum, et impressiones characterum, et tandem, Ideis 
et imperiis Aniinse in infinitum quasi diminutis, coalescunt. Fi- 
dicen igitur peritus chordas digitis percurrit citissime, et ordine 
justo, ex mero aspectu characterum musicorum, animo interim 
alienis eognitationibus intento ; atque proinde characteres musici 
idem illi pnestant officium, ac Sensationes impress® recens natis, 
in motibus eorum automaticis. Migrant itaque ope Associationis 
tarn Motus voluntarii in automaticos, quam automatici in volun¬ 
taries.”* 

So little dependent is the psychological doctrine of Association 
on the physiological doctrine of Vibrations, that Priestley, in his 
Abridgment of Hartley, omits the latter hypothesis altogether. 
The principle of Association passed into the Scotch school; and 
Hartley thus historically forms the transition to Reid and his 
followers, who studiously avoided any thing like a physiological 
explanation of mental phenomena. Before passing to Reid, how¬ 
ever, it will be well to glance at Darwin. 


* Conjectures ,, p. 84. 



CHAPTER III. 


DARWIN. 

Although even more neglected than Hartley by the present 
generation, Darwin, once so celebrated, deserves mention here 
as one of the psychologists who aimed at establishing the physio¬ 
logical basis of mental phenomena. 

Erasmus Darwin was born at Elton, near Newark, on the 12th 
December, 1731. After studying at St. John’s College, Cam¬ 
bridge, and taking his degree of Doctor of Medicine at Edin¬ 
burgh, he established himself as a physician in Lichfield, mar¬ 
ried twice, had three sons, and died in the seventieth year of his 
age, 18th April, 1802. As a poet, his Botanic Garden (1781) 
by its tawdry splendor gained him a tawdry reputation ; as a 
philosopher his Zoonomia; or , Laws of Organic Life (2 vols. 
4to, 1794-6), gained him a reputation equally noisy and fleeting. 

Although couched in different language, Darwin’s theory is 
substantially the same as Hartley’s; instead of “ vibrations” he 
substitutes “ sensorial motions.” By the sensorium Darwin means 
“ not only the medullary part of the brain, spinal marrow, nerves, 
organs of sense, and of the muscles; but also at the same time 
that living principle, or spirit of animation, which resides through¬ 
out the body without being cognizable to our senses, except by 
its effects.” The changes which occasionally take place in the 
sensorium, as during the exertions of volition, or the sensations 
of pleasure or pain, are termed sensorial motions * 

The medullary substance, he thinks, passes along the nerves 
and mingles with the muscular fibres. The “organs of sense 
consist in like manner of moving fibres enveloped in the medul¬ 
lary substance.” The word idea has various meanings, he says, 


* Zoonomia, vol. i. p. 10. 



610 


DARWIN. 


and to give it precision he defines it as “ a contraction or mo¬ 
tion, or configuration of the fibres which constitute the imme¬ 
diate organ of sense. Synonymous with the word idea we shall 
sometimes use the words sensual motion , in contradistinction to 
muscular motion .” 

He then undertakes to prove the existence of these sensual 
motions, and deduces from this proof the fact that as we advance 
in life all the parts of our bodies become rigid, and are conse¬ 
quently less susceptible of new habits of motion, though they 
retain those already established. Hence only the young can 
learn; hence the aged forget the events of yesterday and remem¬ 
ber those of infancy.'* 

“ If our recollection, or imagination, be not a repetition of 
animal movements, I ask, in my turn, What is it ? You tell me 
it consists of images or pictures of things. Where is this exten¬ 
sive canvas hung up ? or "where the numerous receptacles in 
which these are deposited ? or to what else in the animal sys¬ 
tem have they any similitude ? That pleasing picture of objects, 
represented in miniature on the retina of the eye, seems to have 
given rise to this illusive oratory ! It was forgot that this rep¬ 
resentation belongs rather to the laivs of light than to those of 
life ; and may with equal elegance be seen in the camera ob- 
scura as in the eye ; and that the picture vanishes forever when 
the object is withdrawn.”! 

Had Darwin left us only the passage just cited, we should 
have credited him with a profounder insight into Psychology 
than any of his contemporaries, and the majority of his succes¬ 
sors, exhibit; and although the perusal of Zoonomia must con¬ 
vince every one that Darwin’s system is built up of absurd hypoth¬ 
eses, Darwin deserves a place in history for that one admirable 
conception of psychology as subordinate to the laws of life. So 


* Zoonomia, vol. i. p. 27. 

t Ibid., p. 29. In Bain’s Senses and the Intellect , p. 60 sq., the reader will 
find the old theory of a sensorium , or chamber of images, which Darwin 
here pushes aside, satisfactorily refuted from the physiological point of view 



DARWIN. 


611 




little has this conception been appreciated, that not only are sys¬ 
tems of Psychology constructed in serene indifference to Physi- 
ology, but many of the questions agitated in mental Physiology 
are hopelessly entangled because men will not, or cannot, dis¬ 
criminate between problems of Physics and problems of Physi¬ 
ology ; between phenomena regulated by laws of inorganic mat¬ 
ter, and phenomena regulated by laws of organic matter. Thus 
the questions, Why with two eyes do we see objects single? and, 
Why do we not see objects inverted , since their images are in¬ 
verted on the retina ? have puzzled thousands; and not one of 
the attempted solutions has recognized the important fact that 
the problems are psychological, not optical nor anatomical, con¬ 
sequently cannot be settled by optics or anatomy; angles of 
incidence, and discussation of optic nerves, have nothing to do 
with the phenomena the moment after the Sensational Centre 
has been affected. We might as well attempt to deduce the as¬ 
similation of sugar from the angles of its crystals, or from the 
sand-like disposition of its grains, as to deduce the perception 
of an object from the laws of optics: the crystals and grains of 
sugar must first be destroyed , and the sugar made soluble, before 
it can be assimilated ; the retinal images must, in like manner, 
first be transformed in the Sensational Centre before they can, 
through the sensational centre, affect the cerebrum. 

That this is no gratuitous hypothesis of mine, but expresses 
the actual process of perception, in as far as that process has 
been ascertained, may perhaps be made clear from the following 
considerations. When I say that the perception of a visual ob¬ 
ject is a psychological act, not in any way explicable by the laws 
of optics, or by any investigation of the anatomical structure of 
the optic apparatus, I ground that assertion on certain authorita¬ 
tive facts ; for example, I take up the vexed question of our per¬ 
ceiving an object as single, although two images are formed on. 
the two retinas ; and instead of endeavoring to explain it by del¬ 
icate anatomy of the retina, or the decussating fibres of the optic 

nerves, I at once remove it from that circle of discussion by class- 
42 


612 


DARWIN. 




ing it with phenomena precisely analogous. W e see objects 
single with two eyes; true, but we also hear sounds as single 
with two ears, we smell odors as single with two nostrils, we feel 
objects as single with five fingers. How is it that no physiolo¬ 
gist has reflected on the bearing of these tacts ? It the oidinar\ 
explanations of optical perception are correct, why do not audi¬ 
tory and olfactory nerves decussate ?—Why do not the waves of 
sound affect similar points of the tympanum—and so the whole 
mystery be cleared up ? No sooner is attention called to the 
fact of single hearing and single smelling, with two auditory and 
two olfactory nerves, than we at once cease to regard single 
vision with two optic nerves as any thing special, and we tiy if 
a psychological explanation will not avail. I believe the ex¬ 
planation to be very simple. W 2 cannot have two 'precisely simi¬ 
lar sensations at precisely the same instant y the simultaneousness 
of the two sensations renders them indistinguishable. Two sounds 
of precisely the same pitch and intensity, succeeding each other 
by an appreciable interval, will be heard as two sounds; but if 
they succeed each other so rapidly that the interval is inappre¬ 
ciable, no distinction will be felt, and the two will be heard as 
one, because heard simultaneously. As I am forced to be very 
brief here, the reader will not expect any development of this 
theory, but will pass with me to the consideration of other psy¬ 
chological aspects of perception. 

The fact of our being able to see an image reflected on the 
retina of an animal, and of our being able to explain on optical 
principles the formation of that image, has very much misled 
physiologists in their efforts to comprehend sensation; they have 
naturally imagined that in vision we see the retinal image; 
whereas, unless I am altogether mistaken, we see nothing of the 
kind—we are affected by that retinal image, as in hearing we are 
affected by a wave of air, but do not perceive the wave; or as in 
imelling we are affected by the action of volatile substances on 
the olfactory nerve, but do not perceive the substances. We 
only perceive the changes effected in us by these agents. 


DARWIN. 


013 


The various Sensational Centres (see p. 598 ) are variously 
affected by the same stimuli: electricity giving to the gustatory 
nerve the stimulus of savorous bodies, to the auditory nerve the 
stimulus of sonorous vibrations, to the optic nerve the stimulus 
of luminous bodies, to the tactile nerves the stimulus of touch. 
Pressure on the eye causes luminous spots to be seen ; we seem 
to see fire-flies. The pressure of over-distended blood-vessels 
pioduces spectral illusions, and we see daggers in the air as 
vividly as any at our sides. Unhappy students well know the 
“ sin giag in the ears” produced by over-study. Nor is this all: 
narcotics introduced into the blood excite in each Sensational 
Centre the specific sensation normally excited by its external 
stimuli; giving the appearance of luminous spots to the eyes, of 
singing in the ears to the auditory nerves, and of “creeping sen¬ 
sations” to the nerves of touch. 

The reason ot this is that each Sensational Centre has its spe¬ 
cific manner of being affected, no matter what the specific nature 
ot the thing affecting it. W hile only certain things affect it sen¬ 
sationally, all those which do affect it, do so in a specific manner. 
Light, for instance, affects the optic centre, but produces no ap¬ 
preciable effect on the auditory, gustatory, or tactile centres ; 
nevertheless the optic centre may be affected by pressure, by 
narcotics, or by electricity, precisely in the same way as by 
light. The vibrations of a tuning-fork, which affect the auditory 
centre as sound, affect the tactile centre as “ tickling,” not 
“ sound.” 

From these indubitable facts it is not difficult to elicit a con¬ 
clusion, namely, that sensation depends on the Sensational Centre 
and not on the external stimulus, that stimulus being only the 
cause of the sensational change. Whether the retina be directlv 
affected by rays of light issuing from an object, or the optic cen¬ 
tre be affected by the pressure of congested blood-vessels, in each 
case we see , in each case the optic centre is affected in that spe¬ 
cific manner in which alone it is capable of being affected. Con¬ 
sequently inasmuch as the visual sensation depends on the optic 


614 


DARWIN. 


centre being affected, and does not depend on the formation of 
an image on the retina, we have no alternative but to admit that 
the retinal affection is transformed by the Sensational Centre , and 
there the impression first becomes a sensation. 

It may be added as confirmation of the foregoing doctrine re¬ 
specting the centre as the seat of sensation, that Muller has cited 
examples of luminous spectra being excited by internal causes 
after the complete destruction of the retina; and “ Luicke relates 
the case of a patient who, after the extirpation of the eye for fun¬ 
goid disease, perceived all kinds of luminous appearances inde¬ 
pendently of external objects.”* 

When therefore it is asked, Why do we see objects erect , 
when they throw inverted images on the retina ? the answer is, 
Because we do not see the retinal image at all; we see, or are 
affected by, the object; and our perception of the erectness of 
that object does not depend on vision, but on our conceptions of 
space and the relations of space—which are not given in the 
visual sensation, but are ideal conceptions : conceptions which 
are acquired in a complicated series of inferences, according to 
most philosophers ; which are “forms of thought,” according to 
Kant; but which are by no school held to be immediate ele¬ 
ments of sensation. 

We thus return to the position that in every act of conscious¬ 
ness the impression on the nerve becomes transformed into a 
sensation only in the Sensational Centre; and the old theories 
of “ eidola,” “images,” “impressions,” are seen to be untenable. 
Just as the crystals of sugar have to be decomposed, and the 
sugar transformed into glucose, the glucose transformed into 
lactic acid, before sugar can be assimilable in the organism, so 
have the retinal images to be decomposed in the optic centre be¬ 
fore a visual sensation can be produced. Attempt a more direct 
process, and failure is inevitable : cane-sugar injected into the. 
veins is expelled in the urine as a foreign substance, not assimila- 


* Muller, Physiology, Eng. Trans, i. 1072. 




DARWIN. 


615 


Me ; and, in like manner, the most dexterous adjustment of rays 
of light falling immediately on the optic ganglion, not transmit¬ 
ted thereto by the optic nerve, would produce no visual sensation. 

Does not this demonstrate the purely subjective nature of all 
our knowledge, and the necessary admixture of the ideal element 
in all perception ? It also demonstrates the futility of the theory 
adopted by Hartley and Darwin, which attempts to explain men¬ 
tal phenomena by “ vibrations” and “ motions.” Motion can 
only be motion, it cannot be the specific phenomena we name 
sensation. To call sensations and ideas by the vague name of 
motions, is to violate the conditions of philosophic language, and 
to mislead those who accept it into the belief that an explanation 
has been given in the change of term. That Darwin was by it 
misled into absurdity will be apparent in the following attempt 
to explain j^erception: 

“ No one will deny,” he says, “ that the medulla of the brain 
and nerves has a certain figure ; which, as it is diffused through 
nearly the whole of the body, must have nearly the figure of 
that body. Now it follows that the spirit of animation, or living 
principle, as it occupies this medulla and no other part, has also 
the same figure as the medulla . . . which is nearly the figure 
of the body. When the idea of solidity is excited, a part of the 
extensive organ of touch is compressed by some external body, 
and this part of the sensorium so compressed exactly resembles 
in figure the figure of the body that compressed it. Hence 
when we acquire the idea of solidity we acquire at the same time 
the idea of figure ; and this idea of figure, or motion of a part 
of the organ of touch, exactly resembles in its figure the figure 
of the body that occasions it; and thus exactly acquaints us with 
this property of the external world.”* 

He is thus brought back to the old conception of the mind 
being “ impressed” by the exact forms of objects as wax is im¬ 
pressed by a seal. As he proceeds he gets more and more ab- 


* Zooriomia , pp. 111-2. 



616 


DARWIN. 


surd. Thus he says, although “ there may exist beings in the 
universe that have not the property of solidity; that is, which 
can possess any part of space at the same time that it is occupied 
by other bodies; yet there may be other beings that can assume 
this property of solidity or disrobe themselves of it occasionally , as 
we are taught of spirits and of angels; and it would seem that 
the spirit of animation must be endued with this property, other¬ 
wise how could it occasionally give motion to the limbs of ani¬ 
mals ? or be itself stimulated into motion by the obtrusions of 
surrounding bodies, as of light or odor ?”* He is led to this by 
the Spinozistic axiom, that “ no two things can influence or affect 
each other which have not some property common to both of 
them,” which axiom destroys the possibility of spirit acting on 
body. Hartley, as we saw, tried to get over this difficulty by 
assuming the existence of a substance intermediate between body 
and spirit. Darwin finds it easy to assume that the spirit has 
the power of putting on or putting off the properties of matter 
just as it pleases. “ Hence the spirit of animation at the time 
it communicates or receives motion from solid bodies must itself 
possess some property of solidity. And at the time it receives 
other kinds of motion from light, it must possess that property 
which light possesses to communicate that motion named Visi¬ 
bility. In like manner it possesses Saporosity, Odorosity, Tangi¬ 
bility, and Audibility.”! 

This is enough to show how little Darwin understood the real 
value of his luminous idea respecting Psychology based on the 
laws of life; enough also to make every one understand how 
philosophers rebelled against such “ materialism” as issued from 
the explanation of mental phenomena by “ sensory motions.” 
Before finally quitting the Zoonomia we must pause a moment 
over the explanation of our feeling for Beauty. He describes the 
sensations of the babe when “ soon after it is born into this cold 
world it is applied to its mother’s warm bosom,” and the agree- 


* Zoonomia, p. 114. 


t Ibid., i. 115. 



DARWIN. 


617 


able influences which thus grow up in the mind associated with 
the form of the bosom “which the infant embraces with its 
hands, presses with its lips, and watches with its eyes ; and thus 
acquires more accurate ideas of the form than of the odor, and 
flavor, or warmth, which it perceives by its other senses. And 
hence in our maturer years, when any object of vision is presented 
to us, which, by its waving or spiral lines, bears any similitude 
to the form of the female bosom,—whether it be found in a 
landscape with soft gradations of rising and descending surface, 
or in the form of some antique vases, or in the works of the 
pencil or chisel,—we feel a general glow of delight which seems 
to influence all our senses; and if the object be not too large, 
we experience an attraction to embrace it with our arms, and 
to salute it with our lips, as we did in our early infancy the bosom 
of our mother.”* 

One of the happiest illustrations of ridicule being the test of 
truth, is the reply of Sheridan to this theory of Beauty. “ I sup¬ 
pose,” said he, “ that the child brought up by hand, would feel 
all these emotions at the sight of a w r ooden spoon!” 


Zoonomia , i. 145. 



SEVENTH EPOCH. 

SECOND CRISIS : IDEALISM, SKEPTICISM, AND SENSATIONAL¬ 
ISM PRODUCING THE REACTION OF COMMON SENSE. 


CHAPTER I. 

REID. 

Dugald Stewart opens his Account of the Life and Writings 
of Thomas Reid with remarking that the life was “ uncommonly 
barren of those incidents which furnish materials for biography 
and as our space is scanty, we will content ourselves with a bare 
enumeration of such facts as may be useful for reference. Thomas 
Reid was born in 1710, at Strachan in Kincardineshire. He 
was educated at Marischal College, Aberdeen. In 1752 he occu¬ 
pied the chair of Moral Philosophy in Aberdeen. In 17G4 ap¬ 
peared his Inquiry into the Human Mind on the Principles of 
Common Sense. “In 1763* the Inquiry received a still more 
substantial testimony of approbation from the University of 
Glasgow,” in the offer of the chair of Moral Philosophy, vacant 
by the resignation of Adam Smith. In 1780 Reid resigned his 
office, and passed the remaining years of his life in retirement 
and study. In 1785 appeared his Essays on the Intellectual 
Powers. He died in Glasgow in 1796, having survived four of 
his children. 


* We follow Stewart; but there mast be some error here. If the Inquiry 
was not published till 1704, Reid could not in 1763 have been offered the 
chair at Glasgow as a “ testimony of approbation.” 





.REn>. 


619 

Reid’s philosophy made a great stir at first, but has for some 
years past been sinking into merited neglect. The appeal to 
Common Sense as arbiter in Philosophy, is now pretty well un¬ 
derstood to be on a par with Dr. Johnson’s kicking a stone as a 
refutation of Berkeley. Indeed Dugald Stewart himself was fully 
alive to the inconsequence of such an argument, and endeavored 
to shield his master by saying that the phrases “Common Sense” 
and “ Instinct” were unhappily chosen. Unfortunately they were 
uot mere phrases with Reid; they were principles. It is impos¬ 
sible to read the Inquiry and not see that Reid took his stand 
upon Common Sense ;* and Beattie and Oswald, his immediate 
disciples, are still more open to the charge. 

It would carry us to great lengths if we were to examine all 
the questionable tenets contained in the Philosophy of Common 
Sense. We cannot however pass the supposed triumph over 
Locke, who said that personal identity consists in Consciousness; 
“ that is,” continues Reid, “ if you are conscious you did such a 
thing a twelvemonth ago, this consciousness of what is past can 
signify nothing else but the remembrance that I did it; so 
Locke’s principle must be, that Identity consists in remembrance; 
and, consequently, a man must lose his personal identity with 
regard to every thing he forgets.” Here Locke is altogether 
misstated. Consciousness does not resolve itself into any single 
act of memory, as Reid would here have us believe, nor can per¬ 
sonal identity be limited to any one act. I have the conscious¬ 
ness of a certain mental state, therewith is connected the re¬ 
membrance of some anterior state, which was also connected 
with an anterior state, and so on. The chain is made up of 
many links, and although some of these may be out of sight, not 
one is broken. I am connected with my boyhood by a regular 
series of transmitted acts of consciousness. I may have forgotten 


* “ I despise Philosophy, and renounce its guidance: let my soul dwell 
with Common Sense.” ( Inquiry , eh. i. § 3.) Let it bo observed in passing, 
that by Reid’s disciples the Inquiry is always regarded as his best work ; 
die Essays were written in old age. 




620 


REID. 


a thousand things, but I have not forgotten myself: if one act 
performed yesterday is forgotten to-day, all are not forgotten • 
and to remember one, however indistinctly, is sufficient to keep 
up the continuity of consciousness. Let those who fancy the 
sentiment of personal identity does not consist in the conscious¬ 
ness of personal identity, show us in what it doe9 consist. 

We come now to Reid’s great achievement, that upon which 
he declared his philosophical fame to rest: the refutation of 
Berkeley and Hume by the refutation of the Ideal theory. This 
he considered as his contribution to philosophy; this has been 
made the monument of his glory. It appears to us, after a long 
acquaintance with his writings, and a careful perusal of what his 
critics and admirers have advanced, that his sole merit in this 
respect is that of having called attention to some abuses of lan¬ 
guage, and to some examples of metaphors mistaken for facts. 
How much confusion the word “ idea” has always created need 
scarcely be alluded to; and any attempt to destroy the accepta¬ 
tion of the word as tantamount to image , must be welcomed as 
So far let us be grateful to Reid. Locke’s use of the 
a” as signifying “a thought” instead of an “image,” 
has misled thousands. But whatever abuses may have crept in 
with the use of the word idea, it seems to us quite clear that 
Berkeley and Hume are not to be refuted by refuting the hy¬ 
pothesis of ideas, as Reid and his school suppose. 

Let us, to avoid useless discussion, take it for granted that 
philosophers did adopt the theory of ideas which Reid combats; 
let us also grant that Reid has overturned that theory. What 
advance is made towards a solution of the problem ? Not one 
step. The dilemma into which Hume threw Philosophy remains 
the same as ever. As I cannot transcend the sphere of my Con¬ 
sciousness, I can never know things except as they act upon me 
—as they affect my Consciousness. In other words, a knowledge 
of an external world otherwise than as it appears to my Sense, 
which transforms and distorts it, is impossible. 

This proposition may be said to form the ground of Skepti- 


salutary, 
word “ i 


REID. 


621 


cism. Now, we ask, how is that proposition affected by over¬ 
throwing the ideal theory ? What does it signify whether the 
“affections of my consciousness” be regarded as “images” or 
not ? They do not remain less purely subjective which ever way 
we regard them. They are changes in me. The main position 
of Skepticism is precisely this subjectivity of knowledge. Be¬ 
cause we cannot transcend consciousness, we can never know 
things per se. Reid acknowledges that we cannot know things 
per se; but he says that we must believe in them, because in 
what we do know their existence is suggested. This is exactly 
the opinion of Locke; nay more, it is the doctrine of Hume: for 
he says that we do believe in an external world, though we have 
no good reason for doing so. Sir J. Mackintosh relates, that he 
once observed to Dr. Thomas Brown that he thought Reid and 
Hume differed more in words than opinions: Brown answered, 
“ Yes, Reid bawled out we must believe in an outward world; 
but added, in a whisper, we can give no reason for our belief. 
Hume cries out we can give no reason for such a notion; and 
whispers, I own we cannot get rid of it.” 

Reid ought to have seen that his refutation of the ideal theory 
left Idealism and Skepticism untouched :* * for either doctrine it 
matters little how the knowledge be acquired, so that it be en¬ 
tirely subjective. The argument brought forward by Dugakl 
Stewart—that the belief in the existence of an external world 
is one of the Fundamental Laws of Human Belief—is more phil¬ 
osophical ; but when he says that Berkeley’s Idealism was owing 
to the unhappy and unphilosophical attempt of Descartes to 
prove the existence of the world, he forgets that Idealism was 
known in the ancient schools long before any one thought of 
proving the existence of matter. Moreover, although Stewart’s 
formula is not open to the same objections as Reid’s, yet it leaves 
the vital question untouched. 

No one doubts that we believe in the existence of an external 

i. 

* In fact, Malebranche’s Idealism, which is very similar to Berkeley’s, ia 
founded on a theory of Perception almost identical with Reid’s. 



522 


REID. 


world. Idealism never questions the fact. The only doubt is, 
whether that belief be objectively as well as subjectively true. 
To say that the belief in objective existence is a Fundamental 
Law, is simply saying that we are so constituted that we arc 
forced to attribute external reality to our sensations. As well 
say we are so constituted that fire applied to our bodies will give 
us pain. We are so constituted. What then ? Does this ad¬ 
vance us one step? Not one. We have still to seek some proof 
of the laws of our constitution being the measure of the laws of 
other existences —still to seek how what is true of the subjective 
must necessarily be true of the objective. 

Thus, granting to Stewart all he claims, we see that he does 
not attain to the heart of the question; and, strictly speaking, 
he does not touch Berkeley at all; he only touches Hume. 
For what answer can it be to Berkeley, to say that our Belief in 
matter is a Fundamental Law, not to be questioned ? Berkeley 
would reply: “ Exactly; I said as much. I said that men be¬ 
lieved their senses, and believed that what they saw was out of 
them. This is the law of human nature: God has so ordained 
it. But that which men do not believe, is the existence of an 
occult substance, an imaginary world lying underneath all ap¬ 
pearances. You do not mean to assert that the belief in this sub¬ 
stance is a Fundamental Law ? If you do, you must be mad.” 
Stewart’s answer is thus shown to be quite beside the mark. 

Reid constantly declares that no reason can be given for our 
belief; it must be referred to an original instinctive principle of 
our constitution, implanted in us for that express purpose. If 
this be so, we ask, upon what pretence does Reid claim the 
merit of having refuted Idealism and Skepticism by refuting the 
deal hypothesis? If instinct and not reason is to settle the 
question, then has the ideal hypothesis nothing to do with it; if 
the refutation of the ideal hypothesis sufficed, then has instinct 
nothing to do with it. “ To talk of Dr. Reid,” said the Quar¬ 
terly, in its review of Stewart’s Second Dissertation, “ as if his 
writings had opposed a barrier to the prevalence of Skeptical 


KEID. 


623 


philosophy, is an evident mistake. Dr. Reid successfully refuted 
the principles by which Berkeley and Hume endeavored to 
establish their conclusions; but the conclusions themselves he 
himself adopted as the very premises from which he reasons. 
The impossibility of proving the existence of a material world 
from ‘ reason, or experience, or instruction, or habit, or any other 
principle hitherto known to philosophers,’ is the argument and 
the only argument by which he endeavors to force upon us his 
theory of instinctive principles.” 

It appears, then, that inasmuch as Reid declares instinct to be 
the only principle upon which we can found our belief in an ex¬ 
ternal world, his argument against Berkeley is trebly vicious. 
First, because the belief was never questioned ; secondly, because 
although we must act according to our instincts, such a neces¬ 
sity is no proof that our beliefs are true ; thirdly, because if in¬ 
stinct, and not reason, is to be the arbiter, the attack on the 
ideal hypothesis is utterly beside the question. 

Thus we see that, granting to Reid the glory he claims of 
having destroyed the ideal hypothesis, he has only destroyed an 
outpost, fancying it to be the fortress. A few words on his own 
theory of perception may not be out of place here. 

He justly enough declared the ideal hypothesis to be gratui¬ 
tous. We have no reason for supposing that the mind perceives 
images of things instead of the things themselves. But he over¬ 
looks, or rather denies, the fact that we perceive things mediate¬ 
ly ; he says we perceive them immediately. His explanations 
are contradictory and confused, but he repeats the assertion so 
often, that there can be no doubt he meant to say we perceive 
things immediately : the mind stands face to face with the thing, 
and perceives it immediately, without any medium of ideas, 
images, eidola, or the like. In this we believe him utterly in the 
wrong ; his battle against “ ideas” carried him too far. It is one 
thing to say that we are affected by the things, and not by images 
of things; and another thing to say that we perceive things im¬ 
mediately. The former is correct; the latter is in direct contra* 


624 


REID. 


diction with all we know of perception; and Reid constantly 
contradicts himself on the point. 

“ When I attend,” he says, “ as carefully as I can to what 
passes in my mind, it appears evident that the very thing I saw 
yesterday, and the fragrance I smelled, are now the immediate 
objects of my mind when I remember it. . . . Upon the strictest 
attention, memory appears to me to have the things that are 
past, and not present ideas for its objects.” 

This is his position against the ideal hypothesis, which as¬ 
sumes that nothing is perceived but what is in the mind which 
perceives it; that w r e do not really perceive things which are 
external, but only certain images and pictures of them imprinted 
on the mind. The position is untenable. The very thing , the 
rose, of which he thinks, is not an immediate object at all: it is 
elsewhere. The fragrance cannot even be recalled; that is to 
say, cannot be felt again, but only thought. All we can remem¬ 
ber is the fact of having been affected by the rose in a certain 
manner: that affection we call fragrance; w r e cannot recall the 
affection. Reid could hardly, therefore, have meant what his 
words literally express. Perhaps he meant, that when we think 
of the rose and the fragrance, the object of which we think is 
the rose, not an idea of the rose. But what a truism! He 
says, that “ in memory the things that are past, and not present 
ideas , are the objects of the mind.” This is either a needless 
truism or a falsisra. Let us alter the sentence thus—“ In mem¬ 
ory the things thought of are not themselves present to the mind, 
but the thoughts only are present to it.’’ Reid would not dis¬ 
pute this—could not dispute it: yet it is only a more guarded 
statement of the ideal hypothesis ; it substitutes “ thoughts” for 
“ ideas.” He was misled by the ambiguity of the word “ object,” 
which he uses as if meaning simply what the mind is thinking 
of; and of course the mind thinks of the thing, and not of the 
idea. But the ideal hypothesis takes “ object” to be that which 
is immediately present to —face to face—with the mind, viz., an 
idea, or thought; and of course the mind thinks by its thoughts : 


REID. 


625 


it may think about the thing, but it is through the medium of 
thought. 

The difference is this:—The Idealist says, that when things 
affect us, our sensations are what we perceive, and not the things 
producing those sensations. Reid says, we feel our sensations, 
but therewith also we perceive the things. The Idealist further 
says, that when we think of things, the immediate object face to 
face with the mind is not a thing but an idea (thought). Reid 
says the object is the very thing: which is either an absurdity, 
or else does not differ from the ideal hypothesis. 

We are quite ready to admit that the pretended separation 
of thoughts from thinking, and the making thoughts ( objects,” 
is vicious; and therefore Reid’s language is perhaps less objec¬ 
tionable. But we must confess that we see no other advantage 
he gains over his adversaries. He does not pretend that our 
sensations are at all like their causes; nay, he fancies that he 
destroys the ideal hypothesis by insisting on the want of resem¬ 
blance between matter and our sensations. He says, over and 
over again, that the external world is in no respect like our sen¬ 
sations of it. “ Indeed, no man can conceive any sensation to 
resemble any known quality of bodies. Nor can any man show, 
by any good argument, that all our sensations might not have 
been as they are, though no body, nor quality of body, had ever 
existed.”* This granted, the question arises, How do you know 
any thing of the external world? Reid answers, “It is owing to 
an original instinct implanted in us for that purpose.” Push the 
question further, drive him into a corner, and bid him tell you 
what that instinct enables you to know of matter, and he will 
answer, “ In sensation there is suggested to us a cause of that 
sensation in the quality of a body capable of producing it. This 
is Locke’s view. 

The great point in Reid’s theory is, that with our sensations 
are joined perceptions. “ The senses have a double province,” he 


# 


* Inquiry , ch. v. § 2. 



026 


REID. 


says; “they furnish us with a variety of sensations, some pleas 
ant, others painful, and others indifferent; at the same time they 
give us a conception, and an invincible belief of the existence of 
external objects. This conception and belief, which nature pro¬ 
duces by means of the senses, we call perception”* This, upon 
which so much stress is laid that philosophers are said to have 
been always in error because they overlooked it, we regard as a 
remarkable instance of Reid’s want of subtlety. Neither Berke¬ 
ley nor Hume denied the fact of our belief in the externality of 
the causes of sensations: Berkeley denied that these causes had 
an occult substratum; Hume denied that any reason could be 
given for our belief in their externality. What force then lias 
“ Perception ?” It is nothing more than that “ belief,” accord¬ 
ing to Reid; though to call perception a belief is, to say the 
least, a somewhat inaccurate use of language. But grant all he 
wishes, and you grant that with our sensations there is an ac¬ 
companying belief in the existence of an external cause of those 
sensations. Berkeley would answer, “ Very true; but that cause 
is not unthinking matter.” Ilume would answer, “Very true: 
but we can give no reason for our belief; we can know nothing 
of the cause.” Reid can only retort, “ Perception is belief:” a 
retort which has been deemed satisfactory by'his school; which 
really is only an abuse of language; and which moreover has 
the further disadvantage of being available only as an argument 
against Hume; for against Berkeley it is powerless. If percep¬ 
tion is belief, and we perceive an external world, Hume may be 
answered when he says we have no grounds for our belief. But 
Berkeley is not answered. He says that we do believe in an ex¬ 
ternal world; but that world is not a world of unthinking: mat- 
ter—it is a world of divine agency. Reid would not pretend 
that in sensation or perception we can distinguish the nature of 
the causes which affect us; he constantly tells us that we can¬ 
not know what those causes are, but onlv that there are causes. 

7 v 


# Essays on Intellectual Powers, ii. eh. xvii. 




REID. 


627 


As long as the noumenal world is removed from our inspection, 
so long must Berkeley remain unrefuted by any theory of per¬ 
ception. The error of his system, as we endeavored to show, is 
in the gratuitousness of his assumption with respect to the imme¬ 
diate agency of the Deity. 

Reid says, that if we grant Berkeley’s premise—viz. “ we can 
have no conception of any material thing which is not like some 
sensation in our minds”—then are the conclusions of Idealism 
and Skepticism unanswerable. This premise therefore he dis¬ 
putes. Now attend to his challenge:—“This I would therefore 
humbly propose, as an experimentum crucis, by which the ideal 
system must stand or fall; and it brings the matter to a short 
issue : Extension, figure, and motion may, any one or all of them, 
be taken for the subject of this experiment. Either they are 
ideas of sensation, or they are not. If any one of them can be 
shown to be an idea of sensation, or to have the least resemblance 
to any sensation, I lay my hand upon my mouth and give up all 
pretence to reconcile reason to common sense in this matter, 
and must suffer the ideal skepticism to triumph.”* It was not 
till after repeated perusals that we caught the significance of 
this passage; and are not quite positive that we have understood 
it now. To admit it to have any force at all, we must understand 
“ ideas of sensation” as “ images of sensation.” Certainly, exten¬ 
sion is no copy of any one sensation. But if Reid means to say 
that the idea of extension is not the result of complex sensations 
which a body excites in us—if he means to say that the idea 
of extension is not an abstract idea by which we express a cer¬ 
tain property of bodies, a property known to us only through sen¬ 
sation—then must we cease all dispute, and leave him in pos¬ 
session of his wonderful discovery. 

Reid’s theory of perception may be thus stated:—External! 
objects occasion certain sensations in us; with these sensations- 
we perceive the existence of certain qualities capable of producing 


43 


* Inquiry, cli. v. § 7. 



023 


KEID. 


them: these he distinguishes into primary and secondary. The 
primary, he says, we perceive immediately / the second, mediately. 

And this is the theory by which, with the aid of an “ original 
instinct” (some instincts then are acquired ?), he is supposed to 
have refuted Idealism. Any one may see that Berkeley might 
readily have relinquished his ideal hypothesis, and accepted 
Reid’s, with perfect security for Idealism. The “ unknown 
causes,” which Reid calls “qualities,” Berkeley calls “divine 
laws.” The difference is merely nominal. 

This much with respect to Idealism. With respect to Hume, 
the theory is almost as harmless. Hume would say, “ All that 
is given in sensation is sensation; your “ perception” (which you 
call belief) of qualities amounts to nothing more than a suppo¬ 
sition —a necessary one, I admit; but I have always said that 
our belief in external causes of sensation was an irresistible preju¬ 
dice ; and my argument is, that we have nothing but the preju¬ 
dice as a proof—reason, we have none.” 

Finally, with respect to Locke, it will in the first place be seen 
that Reid’s solution is neither more nor less than that given by 
Locke; in the second place, the boasted refutation of the ideal 
hypothesis is always supposed by Reid’s school to be a refutation 
of Locke’s view of the origin of knowledge; and this is a very 
great mistake. Because Berkeley and Hume pushed Locke’s 
system to conclusions from which he wisely shrank, it has been 
generally supposed that his account of the origin of our knowl¬ 
edge is indissolubly bound up with the ideal hypothesis, by it to 
stand or fall. This probably is the meaning of the vulgar error 
that Locke’s view of knowledge leads to atheism. It led to 
Hume. In disproof of Reid’s supposition we answer, firstly, 
Idealism is not indissolubly bound up with the ideal hypothesis, 
although Berkeley may have adopted that hypothesis; secondly, 
Locke’s system is altogether independent of the hypothesis, and 
in his Review of the doctrines of Malebranche he very distinctly 
and emphatically denies it. The force of this observation will 
better be appreciated when it is remembered that although 


REID. 


629 


Locke’s language is notoriously unguarded and wavering, all his 
reasonings are founded on the use of the word “ ideas” as synony¬ 
mous with “ notions” or thoughts ” 

Iu conclusion, although we think it has been shown that the 
Common-Sense Philosophy egregiously failed in answering 
Berkeley and Hume, it was not without service by directing the 
attention of mankind more exclusively to Psychology. The 
phrases so complacently used by Dugald Stewart to express the 
nature of his inquiries, namely “ inductive metaphysics” and 
“ experimental philosophy of the mind,” are perhaps objection¬ 
able ; but few will deny the value of his Elements, and of Brown’s 
Lectures , works so popular as to need no further mention here. 
The Analysis of the Mind , by the late James Mill, which may 
be regarded as the development of Hartley’s doctrine, stripped 
of its physical hypothesis, is less known; but it is a work of 
great value, and would long ago have been as popular had it 
been written in a more engaging manner. No one interested in 
these inquiries should omit studying it.* 

The philosophy of the Scotch School was a protest against 
Skepticism. It failed; but another protest was made in Ger¬ 
many, and on philosophical principles. That also failed, but in 
another way; and the attempt was altogether more worthy of 
Philosophy. The reader foresees that we allude to Kant. 


* Since the first edition of this work, Sir W. Hamilton has published an 
edition of Reid, illustrated and enriched by notes and dissertations of incom¬ 
parable erudition and acuteness. Respecting the interpretation Sir William 
gives to Reid’s doctrines, I will only say that he has shown what a subtle 
mind can read into the philosophy of common sense; but he has not in the 
least produced the conviction in me of Reid’s having meant what the illus¬ 
trious successor supposed him to have meant. At the same time I will add 
that the limits of my work having restricted me to the consideration of Reid’s 
contributions to Philosophy (in the narrow sense of the term), I have not 
done justice to his many excellent qualities as a teacher. His works are well 
worthy of diligent study, and their spirit is eminently scientific. 


r 



EIGHTH EPOCH. 


RECURRENCE TO THE FUNDAMENTAL QUESTION RESPECTING 
THE ORIGIN OF KNOWLEDGE. 


CHAPTER I. 

KANT. 

§ I. Life of Kant. 

Immanuel Kant was born at Konigsberg, in Prussia, 22d 
April, 1724. His family was originally Scotch, a circumstance 
which, when taken in conjunction with his philosophical con¬ 
nection with Hume, has some little interest. His father was a 
saddler, a man of tried integrity. His mother was somewhat 
severe, but upright, speaking the truth, and exacting it. Kant 
was early bred in a love of truth, and had before him such ex¬ 
amples of moral worth as must materially have contributed to 
form his own inflexible principles. 

Madame de Stael has remarked, that there is scarcely another 
example, except in Grecian history, of a life so rigorously philo¬ 
sophical as that of Kant. He lived to a great age, and never 
once quitted the snows of murky Konigsberg. There he passed 
a calm and happy existence, meditating, professing, and writing. 
He had mastered all the sciences; he had studied languages, 
and cultivated literature. He lived and died a type of the Ger¬ 
man Professor: he rose, smoked, drank his coffee, wrote, lec¬ 
tured, took his daily walk always at precisely the same hour. 
The cathedral clock, it was said, was not more punctual in its 
movements than Immanuel Kant.* 


* He mentions having once been kept two or three days from his pro¬ 
menade by reading Rousseau’s Fmile, which had just appeared. 




LIFE OF KANT. 


631 


He was early sent to the University. There he began and 
there he ended his career. Mathematics and physics principally 
occupied his attention at first; and the success with which he 
pursued these studies soon manifested itself in various publica¬ 
tions. He predicted the existence of the planet Uranus; and 
Herschel himself, after discovering it, admitted Kant’s having 
first announced it. 

But none of these publications attracted much attention till 
the renown of his Critique of Pure Reason had made every 
thing produced by him a matter of interest. Nor did the 
Critique itself attract notice at first. The novelty of its views, 
the repulsiveness of its terminology and style, for some time ob¬ 
scured its real value. This value was at length discovered and 
made known. All Germany rang with praises of the new phi¬ 
losophy. Almost every “chair” was filled by a Kantist. Num¬ 
berless books, and not a few pamphlets, came rapidly from the 
press, either attacking or defending the principles of the Critical 
Philosophy. Kant had likened himself to Copernicus. The 
disciples likened him both to Copernicus and Newton; for he 
had not only changed the whole science of Metaphysics, as 
Copernicus had changed the science of Astronomy, but had also 
consummated the science he originated. 

The Critique was, he tells us, the product of twelve years’ 
meditation. It was written in less than five months. These 
two facts sufficiently explain the defects of its composition. In 
his long meditations he had elaborated his system, divided and 
subdivided it, and completed its heavy and useless terminology. 
In the rapidity of composition he had no time for the graces of 
style, nor for that all-important clearness of structure which (de¬ 
pending as it does upon the due gradation of the parts, and upon 
the clearness with which the parts themselves are conceived) 
may be regarded as the great desideratum of a philosophical 
style. 

But in spite of these defects—defects which would have been 
pardoned by no public but a German public—the Critique be- 


632 


KANT. 


came celebrated, and its author had to endure the penalty of 
celebrity. He was pestered with numerous calls of curious 
strangers, who would not leave Konigsberg without having seen 
him. To the curious were added the admiring. Enthusiastic 
scholars undertook long journeys to see their great .master. 
Professor Reuss one day walked into his study, saying brusquely 
that “ he had travelled a hundred and sixty miles to see and 
speak with Kant.” The visits became so numerous, that in the 
latter part of his life he contented himself with merely showing 
himself at the door of his study for a few minutes. 

Kant never spoke of his own system, and from his house the 
subject was entirely banished. He scarcely read any of the at¬ 
tacks on his works: he had enough of Philosophy in his study 
and lecture-room, and was glad to escape from it to the topics of 
the day. 

He died on the 12tli of February, 1804, in the eightieth year 
of his age, retaining his powers almost to the last. He latterly, 
during his illness, talked much of his approaching end. “ I do 
not fear death,” he said, “ for I know how to die. I assure you 
that if I knew this night was to be my last, I would raise my 
hands and say, ‘ God be praised!’ The case would be far differ¬ 
ent if I had ever caused the misery of any of his creatures.” 

For a picture of Kant’s daily habits, and many interesting 
traits of his character, the reader will do well to look at De 
Quincey’s “ Last Hays of Immanuel Kant,” in the third volume 
of his Miscellanies . I cannot find space for such details; nor 
for more than a passing mention of Kant’s relation to Sweden¬ 
borg, of which such unjustifiable use is often made by the ad¬ 
mirers of the latter, who proclaim, with emphasis, that Kant 
testified to the truth of Swedenborg’s clairvoyance. He did 
nothing of the kind. In his Letter on Swedenborg * he narrates 
two of the reported cases of Swedenborg’s clairvoyance , and says 


* Kleine Anthropologische Schriften (Theil vii. p. 5, of Eosenkrantz and 
Schubert’s ed.). 



rant’s historical position. 


G33 


he knows not how to disprove them, they being supported by 
such respectable testimony; but he nowhere testifies to them 
himself; and in the Anthropologie, §§ 35 and 37,* his energetic 
contempt for Swedenborgianism and all other Schwarmerei is 
unequivocally expressed. 

§ II. Kant’s Historical Position. 

There is a notion, somewhat widely spread through England, 
that Kant was a “ dreamer.” He is regarded as a sort of Mystic; 
and the epithet “ transcendental ” is made to express the superb 
contempt which common sense feels for the vagaries of philoso¬ 
phers. The “dreams of the Kantian philosophy,” and “tran¬ 
scendental nonsense,” are phrases which, once popular, now less 
so, are still occasionally to be met with in quarters where one 
little expects to find them. 

We are bound to say that, whatever the errors of Kantism, 
“dreaminess” or “mysticism” are the last qualities to be predi¬ 
cated of it. If its terminology render it somewhat obscure and 
repulsive, no sooner is the language comprehended, than all ob¬ 
scurity falls away, and a system of philosophy is revealed, which 
for rigor, clearness, and, above all, intelligibility, surpasses by 
many degrees systems hitherto considered easy enough of com¬ 
prehension. 

Convinced that the system of Kant is plainly intelligible, and 
finding that neither Kant himself, nor the generality of his ex¬ 
positors, have succeeded in overcoming the repulsiveness of neol¬ 
ogisms and a cumbrous terminology,! our task must obviously 


* Kleine Anthropologische Schriften , zweite Abtheil. p. 89 sq. 
f Since this was written, we have read the work of Victor Cousin, Levons 
sur Kant , vol. i. Paris, 1842. (Translated into English by Mr. Henderson, 
London, 1854.) It is not only one of the best expositions we have seen; it 
is also the most intelligible. The chapter on Kant in M. Barchou de Pen- 
hocn’s useful work, IListoire de la Philos. Allemande depuis Leibnitz jusqu'a 
Hegel , 2 vols. Paris, 1836, may also be read with advantage; though incom¬ 
plete, it is intelligible. Also Morell’s History of Speculative Philos, in the 
Nineteenth Century. Readers of German will do well to read Chalybaus’s 
Historische Entwickelung der Speculativen Philos, von Kant bis Hegel (Dres- 



(> 34 : 


KANT. 


be to give an exposition of the system, as far as possible, in ordi¬ 
nary philosophical language; and, by exhibiting the historical 
position which it occupies, connect with it speculations already 
familiar to the reader. 

From Spinoza to Kant the great question had been this:— 
Have trc, or have ice not, any Ideas which can he called necessa¬ 
rily, absolutely true ? A question which resolved itself into this: 
Have ice, or have we not, any Ideas independent of Experience? 

The answer given by the majority of thinkers was, that we 
had no ideas independent of Experience; and Hume had shown 
that Experience itself was utterly incompetent to assure us of 
any truth not simply relative. 

Experience irresistibly led to Skepticism. The dilemma, there¬ 
fore, which we signalized in the First Crisis of modern Philoso¬ 
phy, again presented itself: Spihozism or Skepticism 1 The 
labors of so many thinkers had only brought the question round 
to its starting-point. But Spinozism was alarming—Skepticism 
scarcelv less so. Before submitting to be fjored by either horn 
of the dilemma, men looked about to see if there was no escape 
possible. A temporary refuge was found by the Scotch School 
in Common Sense, and bv Ivant in Criticism. 

w 

Kant called his system the Critical Philosophy. Ilis object 
was to examine into the nature of this Experience which led to 
Skepticism. While meu were agreed that Experience was the 
source of all knowledge, Kant asked himself, What is this Ex¬ 
perience ?—What are its Elements ? 

The problem he set himself to solve was but a new aspect of 


den, 184S). (It has been twice translated into English: by Mr. Tulk and by 
Mr. Ederslieim.) Michelet’s Gesckichte der letzten Systeme der Phils'*, in 
Peutschlatid r on Kant bis Hegel (Berlin, 1837), is a learned and valuable 
work, but can be read only by the initiated. More generally useful than 
any of these is the Hist, de Iol Philos. Alhmande depuis Kant jusqua Heyel % 
by J. Wilm, Paris, 1856. Kant’s Critique of Pure Reason has been trans¬ 
lated by Mr. Meiklejohn ( Bohns Philosophical Library, 1855) with so much 
accuracy and ability that the translation may be read with entire confidence 
which.can rarely be said of translations from the German. 



kant’s historical position. 635 

the problem of Locke’s Essay. On this deep and intricate ques¬ 
tion of human knowledge two opposite parties had been formed 
—the one declaring that all our knowledge was given in Expe¬ 
rience, and that all the materials were derived from Sensation, 
and Reflection upon those materials; the other declaring that 
Sensation only furnished a portion of our Experience. This sec¬ 
ond party maintained that there were Elements of knowledge 
which not only were never derived from Sensation, but which 
absolutely transcended all sensation. Such, for instance, is the 
idea of Substance. Experience only informs us of qualities : to 
these qualities we add a substratum which we call Substance; 
and this idea of a substratum, which we are compelled to add, 
Locke himself confesses we never gained through any sensation 
of matter. Other ideas, such as Causality, Infinitv, Eternity, 
etc., are also independent of Experience : ergo , says this school, 
antecedent to it. 

In the course of inquiry, the untenableness of the theory of 
innate ideas had become apparent. Descartes himself, when 
closely pressed by his adversaries, gave it up. Still the fact of 
our possessing ideas apparently not derivable from experience, 
remained; and this fact was to be explained. To explain it, 
Leibnitz asserted that although all knowledge begins with Sensa¬ 
tion, it is not all derived from Sensation; the mind furnishes its 
quota; and what it furnishes has the character of universality, 
necessity, consequently of truth, stamped on it. This doctrine, 
slightly modified, is popularly known as the doctrine of “ original 
instincts”—of “ Fundamental Law's of Belief.” 

Kant also recognized the fact insisted on by the adversaries 
of the Sensational School; and this fact he set himself carefully 
to examine. ' His first object was therefore a Criticism of the 
operations of the mind. 

Kant considered that his conception of a purely critical phi¬ 
losophy w r as entirely original.* No one before him had thought 


* And Sir W. Hamilton repeats the statement: Discussions , p. 15. 



636 


KANT. 


of thus subjecting Reason itself to a thoroughly critical investi¬ 
gation, in order to reach answers to such questions as : Are a 
priori synthetic judgments possible ? Is a science of Metaphys¬ 
ics possible ? Certainly no one had isolated the a priori ele¬ 
ments of knowledge from those given in Experience, as Kant 
isolated them, to build a system thereon ; but the whole tend¬ 
ency of speculative development since Hobbes, had been, as 
we have seen, towards the investigation of the grounds of cer¬ 
titude. 

On interrogating his Consciousness, Kant found that neither 
of the two ordinary explanations would account for the phenom¬ 
ena : the abstract Ideas we have, such as Time, Space, Causal¬ 
ity, etc., could not be resolved into Experience alone : nor, on 
the other hand, although a priori , could they be supposed ab¬ 
solutely independent of Experience, since they are, as it were, 
only the forms (necessary conditions) of our Experience. 

There are not two sources of Knowledge, said he: on the one 
side, external objects, and on the other, human understanding. 
Knowledge has but one source, and that is the union of object 
and subject. Thus, water is the union of oxygen and hydrogen ; 
but you cannot say that water has two causes, oxygen and hy¬ 
drogen ; it has only one cause, namely, the union of the two. 

In this conception the existence of two distinct factors is as¬ 
sumed. “ That all our knowledge begins with Experience,” he 
says, “there can be no doubt. For how is it possible that the 
faculty of cognition should be awakened into exercise otherwise 
than by means of objects which affect our senses, and partly ot 
themselves produce representations ( Vorstellungen ), partly rouse 
our powers of understanding into activity, to compare, to con¬ 
nect, or to separate these, and so to convert the raw material of 
our sensuous impressions into a knowledge of objects which is 
called Experience ? In respect of time, therefore, no knowledge 
of ours is antecedent to Experience, but begins with it. But 
although all our knowledge begins with Experience, it by no 
means follows that all arises out of Experience, For, on the con- 


kant’s historical position. 


637 


*rary, it is quite possible that our empirical knowledge ( Erfahr - 
ungserJcenntniss) is a compound of that which we receive through 
impressions, and that which the faculty of cognition supplies 
from itself (sensuous impressions giving merely the occasion ), an 
addition which we cannot distinguish from the original element 
given by sense, till long practice has made us attentive to and 
skilful in separating it. It is therefore a question which requires 
close investigation, and is not to be answered at first sight— 
whether there exists a knowledge altogether independent of Ex¬ 
perience, and even of all sensuous impressions.”* 

To investigate this is the purpose of Criticism. 

The whole world is to us a series of Phenomena. Are these 
Appearances the 'production of the Mind to which they appear ; 
or are they the pure presentation of the things themselves ? 
Idealism or Realism ? Neither; yet both. The Mind and the 
object co-operating produce the Appearance or sensuous impres¬ 
sion. In their union Perception is effectuated. 

The Mind has certain materials furnished it, and on these 
materials it imposes certain forms or conditions of its own. These 
forms alone make perception possible, since they constitute the 
modes of the mind’s operation. If we had only sensations—that 
is, supposing objects acted upon us, and we did not also act upon 
them —the result would be no more than that of the wind play¬ 
ing on the iEolian harp; Experience would be impossible. To 
make Experience possible, the mind must grasp objects in a syn¬ 
thesis of the objects and the forms of the perceptive power. 

Kant’s Criticism was directed against Locke on the one hand, 
in establishing that we have ideas independent of Experience; 
and against Hume on the other, in establishing that these ideas 
have a character of universality, necessity, and irresistibility. 
But—and the point is important—his Criticism proved that 
these ideas, although universal and certain, could not be called 
absolutely true : they were only subjectively true. This was fall- 


* Kritik , Einleitung (Translation, p. 1). 



638 


KANT. 


ing back into Hume’s position ; since although Hume called be¬ 
lief in causality the effect of habit, and Kant called it a law of 
the mind, yet both agreed in denying to it any objective truth ; 
both agreed that a knowledge of things per se was impossible. 

We regard the result of Kaut’s investigation of the elements 
of Thought as nothing less than a scientific basis for Skepticism. 
He likens his philosophical reform to the reform introduced into 
Astronomy by Copernicus.* Finding the labors of men unsatis¬ 
factory, Copernicus bethought him that perhaps success might 
crown his efforts if he shifted his ground, if, instead of assuming 
that the sun turned round the e5rth, he were to assume that the 
earth turned round the sun. So Kant says, that the ordinary 
assumption of our knowledge following the order of external ob¬ 
jects seemed to him better if reversed, and if we were to assume 
that the objects obeyed the laws of our mental constitution. And 
he calls his system critical, because it is- founded on an examina¬ 
tion of our cognitive faculties. Both the name and the compar¬ 
ison appear to us erroneous. An examination of the cognitive 
faculties was, as we have often said, the great topic of philo¬ 
sophical speculation, and although the examination of Kant 
differed somewhat from every other in result, it in nowise differ¬ 
ed in method. Copernicus positively changed the point of view. 
Kant did nothing of the kind : his attempt to deduce the laws of 
the phenomenal world from the laws of mind, was little more 
than the attempt of Descartes to deduce the world from Con¬ 
sciousness ; it is the same as the attempts of Leibnitz and Berke¬ 
ley in method; and the result is very much the result obtained 
by Hume, namely, that we can know nothing but our own ideas, 
we can never know things per se. Kant, after analyzing the 
operations of the mind, discovered indeed certain principles of 
certitude; but he admitted that those principles could not be 
applied to things beyond the Mind; and that all within the 
sphere of our cognition was no more than phenomenal. He re- 


* See the celebrated second Preface to the Kritik. 



kant’s historical position. 


639 


views liis investigation, and then, declaring that he has gone the 
round of the domain of human Understanding and measured it 
exactly, he is still forced to admit that that domain is only an 
island. Nature has assigned to it invariable limits. It is the 
empire of Truth ; but it is surrounded by a stormy and illimita¬ 
ble sea, upon which we discover nothing but illusions. There, 
on that sea, the navigator, deceived by masses of ice which ap¬ 
pear and disappear successively before him, believing that at 
every moment he is about to discover land, wanders without re¬ 
pose, guided only by one hope ; he is the plaything of the stormy 
waves, always forming new plans, always preparing himself for 
new experiences, which he cannot renounce, and yet which he 
can never obtain.* 

To the Skeptic Kant says, “ No : experience is not a deceit; 
human Understanding has its fixed laws, and those laws are true.” 

To the Dogmatist he says, “ But this Understanding can never 
know Things per se. It is occupied solely with its own Ideas. 
It perceives only the Appearances of Things. How would it be 
possible to know Noumena ? By stripping them of the forms 
which our Sensibility and Understanding have impressed upon 
them (£. e. by making them cease to be Appearances). But to 
strip them of these forms, we must annihilate Consciousness—we 
must substitute for our Sensibility and Understandings faculty, 
or faculties, capable of perceiving Things p>er se. This, it is obvi¬ 
ous, we cannot do. Our only means of communication with 
objects are precisely this Sensibility and this Understanding, 
which give to objects the forms under which we know them.” 

To the Dogmatist, therefore, Kant’s reply is virtually the same 
as Hume’s. He proves that the Understanding, from the very 
nature of its constitution, cannot know Things per se. The 
question then arises, Have we any other Faculty capable of 
knowing Things per se? The answer is decisive, We have no 
such Faculty. 


* Kritih, b. i. cap. iii. 



640 


KANT. 


The difference between Hume and Kant, when deeply consid 
ered, is this: Hume said that the Understanding was treach¬ 
erous, and, as such, it rendered Philosophy impossible. Kant 
said that the Understanding was not treacherous, but limited; 
it was to be trusted as far as it went, but it could not go far 
enough; it was so circumscribed, that Philosophy was impos¬ 
sible. 

This difference, slight as it may appear, led to important dif¬ 
ferences in the application of Kant’s principles. The mendacity 
of Consciousness maintained by Hume, led him to utter Skep¬ 
ticism in Philosophy and in Religion, as subjects on which reason 
could not pronounce. The veracity of Consciousness (as far as 
it went) maintained by Kant, was a firm and certain basis, though 
a limited one, on which to build Religion and Morals, as we shall 
see hereafter. Kant’s critics do not in general appear to be aware 
of the consequences resulting from his exposition of the veracity 
of the Understanding. Yet, as the battle was confessedly between 
him and Hume, it might have been suspected that he would not 
have left the field entirely to his antagonist. 

The reader is, we trust, now prepared to follow with interest 
the leading points of Kant’s analysis of the mind. In giving an 
indication of the result of that analysis, before giving the anal¬ 
ysis itself, we hope to have so far interested the reader, that he 
will read the analysis with sharpened attention; seeing whither 
dry details are leading, he will not deem them dry. 

And first of the famous question: How are synthetic judg - 
ments , a priori , possible ? This is the nut Kant has to crack with 
Hume. But first let us understand Kant’s language. He divides 
all our judgments into two classes, analytic and synthetic. The 
analytic judgment is, as it were, but a writing out of our expe¬ 
rience. When we say that a triangle is a figure with three sides, 
or that a body is extended, we are judging analytically; i. e . we 0 
are adding nothing to our conception of body or triangle, we are 
only analyzing it. The synthetic judgment, on the contrary, is 
when we predicate some attribute of a thing, the conception of 


kant's historical position. 


641 


which does not involve that attribute: such as that a straight 
line is the shortest road between two points. 

There are two classes of synthetic judgments: those a pos¬ 
teriori and those a priori. The former result from experience : 
e. g. gold is ductile. We must absolutely know’ that gold is 
ductile, before we can predicate ductility of gold. But the 
a priori judgments are independent of experience : e.g. a straight 
line is the shortest road between two points; which experience 
may confirm, but which is recognized as true, independent of 
experience; above all, it has a character of universality which 
experience could not bestow; for though experience may show 
us how a straight line is, in many instances, the shortest road 
between two points, it cannot prove that there is, absolutely, no 
shorter road in any case. 

Hume declared that our experience of Cause and Effect w T as 
simply an experience of antecedence and sequence ; and that our 
attributing a cause to any effect was a mere matter of habit. 

True, replied Kant, in the fact of antecedence and sequence, 
causation is not given; but inasmuch as causation is irresistibly 
believed in, the idea must have some source. If it is not given 
in the things observed, then must w T e seek it in the observer. In 
this fact of causation what have we ? We have first antecedence 
and sequence; we have next an attribute of causation predicated 
of them. The first is given in our experience; the second is 
not given in our experience, but is independent of it. This sec¬ 
ond is therefore an a priori synthetic judgment. “ It must either 
have an a priori basis in the understanding, or be rejected as a 
chimera. For it demands that something, A, should be of such 
a nature that something else, B, should follow from it necessarily, 
and according to an absolutely universal law. We may certainly 
collect from phenomena a law, according to which this or that 
usually happens, but the element of necessity is not to be found 
in it. Hence it is evident, that to the svnthesis of cause and 
effect belongs a dignity which is utterly wanting in any empir- 
r cal synthesis; for it is no mere mechanical synthesis, by means 


G12 


KANT. 


of addition, but a dynamical one; that is to say, the effect is not 
to be cogitated as merely annexed to the cause, but as posited by 
and through the cause, and resulting from it.”* This, therefore, 
is an a priori judgment. By means of such judgments we are 
not only able to say that one thing is the cause of another, but 
also we are enabled to make this wide generalization: Every ef¬ 
fect must have a cause . Here, as in the proposition of a straight 
line being the shortest road between two points, we have an idea 
not given in experience, and an idea, the universality of which, 
experience could never verify. 

We are thus led to assert that the Mind does add something 
to sense-experience; and that what it adds is not only inde¬ 
pendent of experience, but has the further character of certi- 
titude and universality, which experience can never claim. The 
certainty of experience is always limited; it never can have 
the character of universality, however rich it may be; for after 
a thousand years it may be proved erroneous. Thus, it was uni¬ 
versally believed that all crows were black: a wide experience 
had established it—yet white crows were found; and experience 
was forced to acknowledge it had been in error. So with the 
motion of the sun, once universally believed, because founded 
upon experience. That which is to be held as irresistibly true, 
which shall be universally and necessarily maintained by all 
men, cannot have its origin in Experience, but in the constitution 
of the Mind. Hence the truth of Mathematics; not, as is so often 
said, because it is an abstraction of Forms and Relations, but 
because it is founded on the necessary laws of our mental con¬ 
stitution. 

In these synthetic judgments, a priori, there is a ground of 
Certitude. The veracity of human reason reposes on that Cer¬ 
titude. Although therefore, says Kant, we can never know 
whether our conceptions of things, per se, are adequate , we can 
know what conceptions all men must form of them; although 


* Kntxk , b. i c. ii. § 9 (Transl., p. 76). 



kant’s historical position. 


643 


we cannot know if our knowledge has any objective truth, we 
can be certain of its subjective truth. 

A principle of Certitude having been found, nothing further 
was necessary for its confirmation than to ascertain in how far 
this principle could be the basis of a science. Kant showed 
that it formed the basis of all science. People do not dispute, 
said he, respecting Mathematics or Logic, or the higher branches 
of Physics; and if they do dispute, they end by agreeing. But 
in Metaphysics, disputes are endless. Why is this? Simply 
because Logic, Mathematics, and the higher branches of Physics 
are Sciences of Generalities; they do not occupy themselves 
with variable and contingent, but with the invariable and uni¬ 
versal properties. Logic is composed of rules which are reduci¬ 
ble to certain self-evident propositions. These propositions, re¬ 
duced to their principles, are nothing more than the laws of the 
human mind. These laws are invariable because human nature 
is invariable. Mathematics is, in the same way, the study of 
certain invariable properties, which do not exist in nature, but 
which are conceptions of the mind, upon data furnished by na¬ 
ture, abstraction being made of all that is variable and uncertain 
in those data: e. g. the essential properties of an equilateral tri¬ 
angle, abstraction being made of any body which is triangular, 
and only the properties themselves being considered. 

In physics, since the time of Galileo, men have seen that they 
are judges, not the passive disciples, of nature. They propose an 
d priori problem; and, to solve this problem, they investigate 
nature, they make experiments, and these experiments are di¬ 
rected by reason. It is reason that they follow, even when oper¬ 
ating on nature; it is the principle of that reason which they 
seek in nature, and it is only in becoming rational that physics 
become a science. Again w r e find science reposing on the laws, 
of the mind! 

Thus, the laws which form the basis of logic, mathematics,, 
and physics, are nothing less than the laws of the human mind. 
It is, therefore, in the nature of the human mind that the eerti 
44 


GU 


KANT. 


tude of all the sciences is to be found; and the principles of 
this certitude are universality and necessity. 

Psychology thus becomes the groundwork of all Philosophy; 
to Kant’s Psychology we now address ourselves. 

§ III. Kant’s Psychology. 

It has been shown that experience does not furnish the whole 
of our knowledge; 

That what it does furnish has the character of contingency 
and variability; 

That the mind also furnishes an element, which element is an 
inseparable condition of all knowledge; without it knowledge 
<could not be; 

That this element has the character of universality and necessity. 

.And that the principle of all certitude is precisely this univer¬ 
sality and necessity. 

It now remains for us to examine the nature of the mind, and 
to trace the distinctive characters of each element of knowledge, 
the objective and the subjective. Instead of saying, with the 
Sensational School, All our knowledge is derived from the senses, 
Kant said, Half of all our knowledge is derived from the senses : 
and the half which has another origin, is indissolubly bound up 
with the former half. Thus, instead of saying with the Carte¬ 
sians, that, besides the ideas acquired through the sense, we have 
also certain ideas which are innate, and irrespective of sense; 
Kant-said all our ideas have a double origin, and this twofold 
co-operation of object and subject is indispensable to all knowl¬ 
edge. 

Let us clearly understand Kant’s object. He calls his great 
work the 'Critique of the Pure Reason. It is an examination of 
(the ?mind, with a view to detect its a priori principles. lie calls 
these pure because they are a priori , because they are above and 
(beyond experience. Having demonstrated that the mind has 
<ome pure principles—has some ideas which were never given in 
experience, and must therefore be a priori —he was led to inquire 


kant’s psychology. 


045 

how many the mind possessed. In his Critique therefore we 
are only to look for the exposition of ci priori principles. He 
does not trouble himself with investigating the nature of percep¬ 
tion ; he contents himself with the fact that we have sensations, 
and with the fact that we have ideas whose origin is not sensuous. 

The Non-ego and the Ego, the objective world and the sub¬ 
jective mind, being placed face to face, the two co-operate to 
produce knowledge. We are however here only concerned with 
the subject. What do we discover in it? First, a Sensibility— 
a power of being affected by objects; this is what Kant calls 
the Receptivity of the mind: it is entirely passive. By it the 
representations of objects (i. e. sensations) are received. Second¬ 
ly, an understanding ( Verstand )—a faculty of knowing objects 
by means of the representations furnished by our Sensibility: 
this is an active faculty; in antithesis to Sensibility, it is a 
Spontaneity. 

But our Sensibility, although passive, has its laws or con¬ 
ditions ; and, to discover these conditions, we must separate that 
which is diverse and multiple in our sensations from that which 
remains invariably the same. The objects are numerous and 
various; the subject remains invariable. Kant calls the multi¬ 
ple and diverse element by the name of material ; the invariable 
element by the name of form. If therefore we would discover 
the primary conditions of our Sensibility, we must discover the 
invariable elements in all sensations. 

There are two invariable elements— Space and Time. They 
are the forms of our Sensibility. Space is the form of our Sen¬ 
sibility, as external; Time the form both as internal and ex¬ 
ternal. 

Analyze sensations of external things as you will, you can 
never divest them of the form of Space. You cannot conceive 
bodies without Space; but you can conceive Space without 
bodies. If all matter were annihilated, you must still conceive 
Space to exist. Space therefore is the indispensable condition 
of sensation: the form of external Sensibility. It is not given 


646 


KANT. 


in the materials of sensation; since you may conceive the objects 
annihilated, but cannot conceive the annihilation of Space. Not 
being given in the material, it must therefore constitute the form. 

Similar reasoning proves that Time is also the form of our 
Sensibility, considered both as internal and as external. We 
cannot conceive things as existing, except as existing in Time; 
but we can conceive Time as existing, though all things were 
annihilated. Things subjected to our Sensibility are subjected 
to it in succession ; that is the form of our Sensibility. 

Such then are the two indispensable conditions of all sensa¬ 
tion—the two forms with which we invest all the varied mate¬ 
rials presented to us. It is evident that these two ideas of Space 
and Time cannot have been given in the materials, consequently 
are not deducible from experience; eryo, they are a priori , or, 
as Kant calls them, pure intuitions. 

Having settled this point, he enters into his celebrated ex¬ 
amination of the question, Have Space and Time any objective 
reality ? 

We need not reproduce his arguments, which however may 
be studied as tine dialectical exercises, but content ourselves with 
giving the result. That result is easily foreseen : If Space and 
Time are the forms of our Sensibility, and are not given in ex¬ 
perience, not given in the materials presented, we may at once 
assume that they have no existence out of our Sensibility. Kant’s 
reduction of Space and Time to formal elements of thought 
without corresponding objective reality, has been refuted by 
Herbert Spencer,* who has shown that the experience-hypothe¬ 
sis better explains the genesis of these conceptions. I must not 
venture to interrupt the exposition of Kant by any quotations, 
but will add my own conviction that Space and Time are 
objective realities in the sense that solidity, color, etc., are 
objective realities; in other words, although, as we conceive 
them, they are purely subjective, and do not exist externally as 


* Principles of Psychology, pp. 52-58. 



rant’s psychology. 


647 


the Space and Time which exist in us, nevertheless some external 
reality there is, corresponding to our subjective state; precisely 
as there must be some corresponding objects of solidity, color, 
etc., otherwise the conceptions of solidity, color, etc., would 
never have been formed. 

Returning now to the exposition, we must follow Kant’s 
analysis of the forms of the Understanding. The forms of Sensi¬ 
bility being those of Space and Time, we must pass onwards to 
the higher operations of the mind. The function of the Under¬ 
standing is to judge. It is eminently an active faculty; and by 
it the perceptions furnished through our Sensibility are elevated 
into conceptions ( Begriffe ). If we had only Sensibility, wo 
should have sensations, but no knowledge. It is to the Under¬ 
standing that we are indebted for knowledge. And how are we 
indebted to it? Thus:—the variety of our sensations is reduced 
to unity—they are linked together and made to interpret each 
other by the understanding. A sensation in itself can be noth¬ 
ing but a sensation : many sensations can be nothing but many 
sensations, they can never alone constitute conceptions. But 
one sensation linked to another by some connecting faculty—the 
diversity of many sensations reduced to unity—the resemblances, 
existing amidst the diversity, detected and united together—is 
the process of forming a conception, and this is the process of 
the Understanding, by means of imagination, memory, and con¬ 
sciousness. 

Our senses, in contact with the external world, are affected by 
objects in a certain determinate manner. The result Kant calls 
a representation ( Vorstellung ) in reference to the object repre¬ 
sented ; an intuition (Anschauung) in reference to the affection 
itself. These intuitions are moulded by the Understanding into 
conceptions; the sensation is converted into a thought. 

The Understanding is related to Sensibility in the same way 
as Sensibility is related to external things. It imposes certain 
forms on the materials furnished it by Sensibility, in the same 
way as Sensibility imposed the forms of space and time upon 


548 


RANT. 


objects presented to it. These forms of the Understanding are 
the laws of its operation. 

To discover these forms we must ask ourselves, What is the 
function of the Understanding?—Judgment. How many classes 
of judgments are there ? In other words, What are the invari¬ 
able conditions of every possible judgment ?—They are four: 
quantity, quality, relation, modality. Under one of these heads, 
every judgment may be classed. 

A subdivision of each of these classes follows :—1. In judging 
of any thing under the form of quantity, we judge of it as unity 
or as plurality; or, uniting these two, we judge of it as totality. 
2. So of quality: it may be reality, negation, or limitation. 3. 
Relation may be that of substance and accident, cause and effect, 
or action and reaction. 4. Modality may be that of possibility, 
existence, or necessity. 

Such are Kant’s famous Categories. They are little better 
than those of Aristotle, which we before declared to be useless. 
For although the object of Kant was different from that of Aris¬ 
totle, as Sir W. Hamilton points out;* the result was nothing . 
but a cumbrous machinery incompetent to aid our investigations, 
although very seductive to the lovers of verbal distinctions. 

In those Categories Kant finds the pure forms of the Under¬ 
standing. They render thought possible ; they are the invaria¬ 
ble conditions of all conception; they are the investitures bestow¬ 
ed by the understanding on the materials furnished by sense. 

By the Categories, he declares he has answered the second 
half of the question, How are synthetic judgments, a priori, pos¬ 
sible? The synthetic judgments of the Categories are all a 
'priori. But we have not yet exhausted the faculties of the 
mind. Sensibility has given us intuitions (perceptions), Un¬ 
derstanding has given us conceptions, but there is still another 
faculty—the crowning faculty of Reason ( Vernunft ), the pure 
forms of which we have to seek. 


* Discussions, p. 25. 



rant’s psychology. 


G49 


Understanding is defined, the faculty of judging (Vermogen 
der Urtheile ); Reason is the faculty of ratiocination—of draw¬ 
ing conclusions from given premises (Vermogen der Schliisse). 
Reason reduces the variety of conceptions to their utmost unity. 
It proceeds from generality to generality till it reaches the 
unconditional. Every conception must be reduced to some 
general idea, that idea again reduced to some still more general 
idea, and so on till we arrive at an ultimate and unconditional 
principle, such as God. 

Reason not only reduces particulars to a general, it also de¬ 
duces the particular from the general: thus, when I say, “ Peter 
is mortal,” I deduce this particular proposition from the general 
proposition, “ All men are mortaland this deduction is evi¬ 
dently independent of experience, since Peter being now alive, I 
can have no experience to the contrary. These two processes 
of reducing a particular to some general, and of deducing some 
particular from a general, constitute ratiocination. 

Reason has three pure forms; or, as Kant calls them, borrow¬ 
ing the term from Plato, ideas. These are wholly independent 
of experience; they are above Sensibility—above the Under¬ 
standing ; their domain is Reason, their function that of giving 
unity and coherence to our conceptions. 

The Understanding can form certain general conceptions, 
such as man, animal, tree; but these general conceptions them¬ 
selves are subordinate to a still more general idea, embracing all 
these general conceptions, in the same way as the conception of 
man embraces several particulars of bone, blood, muscle, etc. 
The idea is that of the universe. 

In the same way all the modifications of the thinking being— 
all the sensations, thoughts, and passions—require to be em¬ 
braced in some general idea, as the ultimate ground and possi ¬ 
bility for these modifications, as the noumenon of these phe¬ 
nomena. This idea is that of an ego —of a personality—of a 
soul, in short. 

Ilavino- thus reduced all the varieties of the ego to an uncon* 

O 


650 


KANT. 


ditional unity, viz., soul, and having also reduced all the varieties 
of the non-ego to an unconditional unity, viz., the world, his task 
would seem completed; yet, on looking deeper, he finds that 
these two ideas presuppose a third—a unity still higher, the 
source of both the world and of the ego —viz., God. 

God, the soul, and the world, are therefore the three ideas of 
reason, the laws of its operation, the 'pure forms of its existence. 
They are to it what Space and Time are to Sensibility, and what 
the categories are to Understanding. 

But these ideas are simply regulative: they operate on con¬ 
ceptions as the Understanding operates upon sensations; they 
are discursive, not intuitive; they are never face to face with 
their objects: hence Reason is powerless when employed on 
matters beyond the sphere of Understanding ; it can draw noth¬ 
ing but false, deceptive conclusions. If it attempts to operate 
beyond its sphere—if it attempts to solve the question raised re¬ 
specting God and the world—it falls into endless contradictions. 

“ While we regard as conclusive Kant’s analysis of Time and 
Space into conditions of thought,” says Sir W. Hamilton, “ we 
cannot help viewing his deduction of the Categories of the Un¬ 
derstanding and the Ideas of speculative Reason as the work of 
a great but perverse ingenuityand we, who do not even regard 
the analysis of Space and Time as conclusive, may echo this 
ludgment with greater emphasis. 

§ IV. Consequences of Kant’s Psychology. 

We have given briefly the leading points in Kant’s analysis 
of the mind. We have now to trace the consequences of that 
analysis. 

The great question at issue was : Have we, or have we not , any 
ideas which are absolutely , objectively true? Before this could 
be answered, it was necessary to answer this other question : 
Have we , or have we not , any ideas independent of experience ? 
Because if we have not such ideas, we can never pretend to 
lolve the first question : our experience can only be of that 


CONSEQUENCES OF KANT’S PSYCHOLOGY. 


G51 


which is relative, contingent, subjective; and to solve the ques¬ 
tion, we must be in possession of absolute, necessary, objective 
truth. 

Kant answered the second question affirmatively. Ilis Critique 
was a laborious demonstration of the existence of ideas not de¬ 
rived from experience, and in no way resolvable into experience. 
But he answered the first question negatively. He declared that 
our ideas are essentially subjective, and cannot therefore have 
objective truth. He did not deny the existence of an external 
world; on the contrary, he affirmed it, but he denied that we 
can know it: he affirmed that it was essentially unknowable. 

The world exists,—that is to say, the noumena of the various 
phenomena which we perceive, exist. The world is not known 
to us as it is per se , but as it is to us —as it is in our knowledge 
of it. It appears to us; only the appearance therefore can be 
known; the world must ever remain unknown, because, before 
being known, it must appear to us, i. e. come under the condi¬ 
tions of our Sensibility, and be invested with the forms of Space 
and Time, and come under the conditions of our Understanding, 
and be invested with the categorical forms. 

Suppose object and subject face to face. Before the subject 
can be affected by the object—that is to say, before a sensation 
is possible—the object must be modified in the sensation by the 
forms of our Sensibility: here is one alteration. Then before 
sensation can become thought, it must be subjected to the cate¬ 
gories of the Understanding: here is another alteration.* 

Now, to know the object per se — i. e. divested of the modifi¬ 
cations it undergoes in the subject—is obviously impossible; for 
it is the subject itself which knows, and the subject knows only 
under the conditions which produce these modifications. 

Knowledge, in its very constitution, implies a purely subjec¬ 
tive, cryo, relative character. To attempt to transcend the sphere 


* Compare what was said on the transformation of impressions into sensa¬ 
tions, pp. 611, sq. 




KANT. 


of the subjective is vain and hopeless; nor is it wise to deplore 
that we are “ cabin’d, cribb’d, confined” within that sphere from 
which we never can escape. As well might the bird, when feel¬ 
ing the resistance of the air, wish that it were in vacuo, thinking 
that there it might fly with perfect ease. Let us therefore con¬ 
tent ourselves with our own kingdom, instead of crossing peril¬ 
ous seas in search of kingdoms inaccessible to man. Let us 
learn our weakness.* 

First Result. —A knowledge of things per se (.Dinge an sick ) 
is impossible, so long as knowledge remains composed as at 
present; consequently Ontology, as a science, is impossible. 

But, it may be asked, if we never knew noumena (Dinge an 
sick), how do we know that they exist? Their existence is a 
necessary postulate. Although we can only know the appear¬ 
ances of things, we are forced to conclude that the things exist. 
Thus, in the case of a rainbow, we discover that it is only the 
appearance of certain drops of water: these drops of water again, 
although owing their shape, color, etc., to us, nevertheless exist. 
They do not exist as drops of water, because drops of water are 
but phenomena; but there is an unknown something which, 
when affecting our Sensibility, appears to us as drops of water. 
Of this unknown something we can affirm nothing, except that 
it necessarily exists because it affects us. We are conscious of 
being affected. We are conscious also that that which affects us 
must be something different from ourselves. This the law of 
causation reveals to us. 

A phenomenon, inasmuch as it is an appearance, presupposes 
a noumenon—a thing which appears ,—but this noumenou, which 
is a necessary postulate, is only a negation to us. It can never 
be positively known; it can only be known under the conditions 
of sense and understanding, ergo, as a phenomenon. 

Second Result. —The existence of an external world is a 
necessary postulate, but its existence is only logically affirmed. 


* Compare Kant’s fine passage at the close of the Einleitung 




CONSEQUENCES OF KANT’s PHILOSOPHY. 653 

From the foregoing it appears that we are unable to know any 
thing respecting things per se; consequently we can never 
predicate of our knowledge that it has objective truth. 

But our knowledge being purely subjective and relative, can 
we have no certainty?—are we to embrace skepticism? No. 

Third Result. —Our knowledge, though relative, is certain. 
We have ideas independent of experience; and these ideas have 
the character of universality and necessity. Although we are 
not entitled to conclude that our subjective knowledge is com¬ 
pletely true as an expression of the objective fact, yet we are 
forced to conclude that within its own sphere it is true. 

Fourth Result.— The veracity of consciousness is established. 

Fifth Result. —With the veracity of consciousness, is estab¬ 
lished the certaiuty of morals. 

It is here we see the importance of Kant’s analysis of the 
mind. Those who reproach him with having ended, like Hume, 
in skepticism, can only have attended to his Critique of the Pure 
Reason , which certainly does, as we said before, furnish a scien¬ 
tific basis for skepticism. It proves that our knowledge is rela¬ 
tive ; that we cannot assume things external to us to be as we 
conceive them: in a word, that Ontology is impossible. 

So for Kant goes with Hume. This is the goal they both at¬ 
tain. This is the limit they agree to set to the powers of the 
mind. But the different views they took of the nature of mind 
led to the difference we before noted respecting the certainty of 
knowledge. Kant having shown that consciousness, as far as it 
extended, was veracious; and having shown that in conscious¬ 
ness certain elements were given which were not derived from 
experience, but which were necessarily true; it followed that 
whatever was found in consciousness independent of experience, 
was to be trusted without dispute. 

If in consciousness I find the ideas of God, the world, and 
virtue, I cannot escape believing in God, the world, and virtue. 
This belief of mine is, I admit, practical, not theoretical; it is 
founded on a certainty , not on a demonstration ; it is an ultimate 


654 


IvANT. 


fact, from which I cannot escape—it is not a conclusion deduced 
by reason. 

The attempt to demonstrate the existence of God is an impos¬ 
sible attempt. Reason is utterly incompetent to the task. The 
attempt to penetrate the essence of things—to know things per 
se —to know noumena—is also an impossible attempt. And 
yet that God exists, that the world exists, are irresistible con¬ 
victions. 

There is another certitude, therefore, besides that derived from 
demonstration, and this is moral certitude, which is grounded 
upon belief. I cannot say, “ It is morally certain that God ex¬ 
ists,” but I must say, “ I am morally certain that God exists.” 

Here then is the basis for a Critique of the Practical Reason , 
an investigation into the Reason, no longer as purely theoretical, 
but as practical. Man is a being who acts as well as knows. 
This activity must have some principle, and that principle is 
freedom of will. 

As in the theoretical part of Kant’s system we saw the super- 
sensual and unconditioned presupposed as existent (under the 
name of things per se ), but not susceptible of being known or 
specified; so in this practical part of the system we find the 
principle of freedom altogether abstract and indeterminate. It 
realizes itself in acts. 

In the very constitution of his conscience, man discovers the 
existence of certain rules which he is imperatively forced to im¬ 
pose upon his actions; in the same way as he is forced by the 
constitution of his reason to impose certain laws upon the mate¬ 
rials furnished him from without. These moral laws have like¬ 
wise the character of universality and necessity. The idea of 
virtue never could be acquired in experience, since all we know 
of virtuous actions falls short of this ideal which we are com¬ 
pelled to uphold as a type. The inalterable idea of justice is 
likewise found, a priori, in the conscience of men. This, indeed, 
has been denied by some philosophers; but all a priori truths 
have been denied by them. They cite the cruel customs of some 


rant’s fundamental principles. G55 

savage races as proofs that the idea of justice is not universal.* 
Thus, some tribes are known to kill their old men when grown 
too feeble; and they test their strength by making these old men 
hold on to the branch of a tree, which is violently shaken, and 
those that fall are pronounced too weak to live. But even here, 
in spite of the atrocity, we see the fundamental ideas of justice. 
Why should they not abandon these aged men to all the horrors 
of famine and disease? and why put them to a test? Look 
where you will, the varied customs of the various nations peo¬ 
pling the earth will show you different notions of what is just 
and w’hat is unjust; but the a priori idea of justice—the moral 
law from which no conscience can be free —that you will find 
omnipresent. 

We regret that our space will not permit us to enter further 
into Kant’s system of morality, and his noble vindication of the 
great idea of duty. But enough has been said to show the de¬ 
pendence of his Critique of the Practical Reason upon the prin¬ 
ciples of his Critique of the Pure Reason ; a dependence which 
some hasty critics have pronounced an unphilosophical compro¬ 
mise. 

§ V. Examination of Kant’s Fundamental Principles. 

Kant’s system presents three important points for our consid¬ 
eration : 

1. It assigns a limit to the powers of reason, and clearly marks 
out the domain of scientific inquiry. In this it is skeptical, and 
furnishes skepticism with terrible weapons. 

2. It proclaims that knowledge has another origin besides ex¬ 
perience ; and that the ideas thus acquired are necessarily true. 
In this the veracity of consciousness is established, and skep¬ 
ticism is defeated. 

3. It founds upon this veracity of consciousness a system of 
morals; the belief in a future state, and in the existence of God. 


* Ivant alludes to Locke. 




656 


KANT. 


Ia tlie course of our exposition we abstained from criticism; 
certain that it would lead us far beyond our limits to venture on 
an examination of any but the fundamental principles. The 
three points above mentioned will, if closely examined, be found 
to present only one calling for discussion here, and that one is 
the second. * 

For the admission contained in the first—viz. that we are un¬ 
able to know things in themselves—gives up Philosophy as a 
matter beyond the reach of human intelligence. Skepticism is 
made the only result of ontological speculation. But we are 
guarded against such a conclusion entering deeply into practical 
life, by the demonstration of our having ideas independent of ex¬ 
perience. This is the second point. Were this second point to 
fall to the ground, nothing but skepticism could remain. With 
the second point must stand or fall the third. 

The second point, therefore, becomes the central aud vital 
point of Kant’s system, and must engage our whole attention. 
All such subsidiary criticism as is current in Germany and 
Frauce, respecting the impossibility of separating the objective 
from the subjective elements of a knowledge which is confessedly 
both subject and object in one, may be safely set aside. Let the 
possibility be granted; the vital question is not connected with 
it. The same may be said of the illogicality of Kant’s assuming 
for the practical reason that which he denies to the pure reason. 
The vital point in his system is, we repeat, the question as to 
whether we have ideas independent of experience. This is all- 
important. 

And what gives it its importance ? The conviction, that if 
we are sent into this world with certain connate principles of 
truth, those principles cannot be false; that if, for example, the 
principle of causality is one which is antecedent to all experience, 
and is inseparable from the mind, we are forced to pronounce it 
an ultimate truth. 

Let us meditate on this question. As Kant confessedly was 
led to his own system by the speculations of Hume on causation. 


rant's fundamental principles. 


657 


and as that is the most important of all the ci priori ideas with 
which the mind is supposed to be furnished, we will content our¬ 
selves with examining it. If that be found dependent on expe¬ 
rience, all the a priori ideas must be likewise given up. This is 
the nut we have to crack; its kernel is the kernel of the whole 
question. Let us first consider these Necessary Truths, as Dr. 
Whewell calls a priori ideas. 

That two parallel lines can never meet, is a Necessary Truth. 
That is to say, it necessarily follows from the definition of a 
straight line. To call it, however, an a priori truth, a truth in¬ 
dependent of experience, seems to us a very imperfect analysis 
of the mind’s operations. An attempt is made to prove that the 
idea could never have been gained through experience, because 
it commands universal assent, and because experience itself could 
never give it necessity. Dr. Whewell’s argument is, that let us 
follow two parallel lines out as far as we can, we are still unable 
to follow them to infinity: and, for all our experience can tell 
us to the contrary, these lines may possibly begin to approach 
immediately beyond the farthest point to which we have followed 
them, and so finally meet. Now what ground have we for be¬ 
lieving that this possibility is not the fact ? In other words, 
how do we know the axiom to be absolutely true ? Clearly not 
from experience, says Dr. Whewell, following Kant. 

We answer, Yes; clearly from experience. For our experience 
of two parallel lines is precisely this: they cannot inclose space. 
Dr. Whewell says that, for all our experience can tell us to the 
contrary, the lines may possibly begin to approach each other at 
some distant point; and he would correct this imperfect expe¬ 
rience by a priori truth. The case is precisely the reverse. The 
tendency of the mind unquestionably is, to fancy that the two 
lines will meet at some point; it is experience which corrects this 
tendency. There are many analogies in nature to suggest the 
meeting of the two lines. It is only our reflective experience 
which can furnish us with the proof which Dr. Whewell refers 
to ideas independent of all experience. What proof have.we 


65S 


KANT. 


that two parallel lines cannot inclose space ? Why this: as 
soon as they assume the property of inclosing space , they lose the 
property of parallelism —they are no longer straight lines, but bent 
lines. In carrying out imaginatively the two parallel lines into 
infinity, we have a tendency to make them approach; we can 
only correct this by a recurrence to our experience of straight 
lines: we must call up a distinct image of a straight line, and 
then we see that two such lines cannot inclose space. 

The whole difficulty lies iu the clearness or obscurity with 
which the mind makes present to itself past experience. “ Re¬ 
frain from rendering your terms into ideas,” says Herbert Spen¬ 
cer, “and you may reach any conclusion whatever. The whole 
is equal to its part, is a proposition that may be quite comfort¬ 
ably entertained so long as neither wholes nor parts are ima¬ 
gined”* But no sooner do we make present to our minds the 
meaning of parallel lines, than in that very act we make present 
the impossibility of their meeting, and only as the idea of these 
lines becomes wavering, does the idea of their meeting become 
possible. 

“Necessary truths,” says Dr. Whewell, “are those iu which 
we not only learn that the proposition is true, but see that it must 
be true; in which the negation is not only false, but impossible; 
in which we cannot, even by an effort of the imagination, or in 
a supposition, conceive the reverse of that which is asserted. 
That there are such truths, cannot be doubted. We may take, 
for example, all relations of Number. Three and two make five. 
We cannot conceive it otherwise. We cannot by any freak of 
thought imagine that three and two make seven.” 

That Dr. Whewell cannot by any freak of thought now ima¬ 
gine three and two to make seven, is very likely; but that he 
could never imagine this, is untrue. If he had been asked the 
question before he had learned to reckon, he would have ima¬ 
gined seven quite as easily as five: that is to say, he would not 


* Principles of Psychology , p. 49. 



KANT'S FUNDAMENTAL PRINCIPLES. 659 

\ 

have known the relation of three and two. Children have no 
intuitions of numbers: they learn them as they learn other 
things. “ The apples and the marbles,” says Herschel, “ are put 
in requisition, and through the multitude of gingerbread-nuts 
their ideas acquire clearness, precision, and generality.” But 
though, from its simplicity, the calculation of three added to 
two, is with a grown man an instantaneous act; yet if you ask 
him suddenly how many are twice 365, he cannot answer till he 
has reckoned. He might, certainly, by a very easy “ freak of 
thought” (i. e. by an erroneous calculation), imagine the sum- 
total to be 720; and although when he repeats his calculation, 
lie may discover the error, and declare 730 to be the sum-total, 
and say, “It is a Necessary Truth that 365 added to 365 make 
730,” we should not in the least dispute the necessity of the 
truth, but presume that he himself would not dispute that he 
had arrived at it through experience, namely, through his knowl¬ 
edge of the relations of numbers, a knowledge which he remem¬ 
bers to have laboriously acquired when a boy at school. 

The foregoing remarks having, we trust, established that the 
truths of Geometry and Arithmetic, which form one class of the 
so-called Necessary Truths, are not obtained a priori, independ¬ 
ently of Experience, we pass on to the other class, which we 
would call Truth of Generalization. 

Our example shall be that chosen by Kant: “ Every effect 
must have a cause.” This is not a mere writing out of our con¬ 
ceptions : it is not a mere explanation, in different terms, of what 
we mean. It is a wide generalization. Experience can only be 
experience of individual causes and effects ; and although in our 
conception of an effect the conception of a cause is certainly in¬ 
volved, and in so for the judgment may be supposed an analytic 
judgment, yet if we look closer, the ambiguity will disappear. 
The word effect implies as a correlative the word cause. But 
the Thing we see before us does not imply the existence of some 
other Thing which caused it; and our judgment that it must 
have had an antecedent cause, is purely synthetic. 

45 


GOO 


KANT. 


When we assert that every effect must have a cause, we assert 
that which no experience can have warranted. Is the idea there¬ 
fore acquired through some other channel ? No ; and the up¬ 
holders of the doctrines of Innate Ideas, Fundamental Laws of 
Belief, Categories of the Understanding, and Necessary Truths, 
appear to us to labor under a confusion of thought which a very 
little well-directed analysis might have cleared up. The con¬ 
fusion is this :—Our experience is obviously incapable of guaran¬ 
teeing the truth of any universal and necessary idea. But to 
assume therefore that the idea is independent of experience, is to 
forget that what experience may not guarantee , it may suggest; 
and the universality and necessity of our ideas, is nothing more 
nor less than the suggestions of the understanding, which by the 
law of its operation generalizes from particulars, and converts 
them into universals. We will presently explain this more fully; 
let us now hear Kant, who distinguishes a pure cognition from 
an empirical cognition by this mark of necessity and universality. 
“ Experience no doubt teaches us that this or that object is con¬ 
stituted in such and such a manner, but not that it could not 
possibly exist otherwise.” . . . “ Empirical universality is only 
an arbitrary extension of the validity from that which may be 
predicated of a proposition valid in most cases to that which is 
asserted of a proposition which holds good in all. When, on the 
contrary, strict universality characterizes a judgment, it necessa¬ 
rily indicates another peculiar source of knowledge, namely, a 
faculty of cognition a priori. Necessity and strict universality, 
therefore, are infallible tests for distinguishing pure from empiri¬ 
cal knowledge, and are inseparably connected with each other.”* 
And elsewhere : “ If we thought to free ourselves from the labor 
of these investigations by saying, ‘ Experience is constantly offer¬ 
ing us examples of the relation of cause and effect in phenomena, 
and presents us with abundant opportunity of abstracting the 
conception of cause, and so at the same time of corroborating the 


* Einleitung , § ii. (Transi. p. 3). 



kant's fundamental principles. 661 

objective validity of this conception”—we should in this case be 
overlooking the fact that the conception of cause cannot arise in 
this way at all; that on the contrary it must either have a basis 
in the Understanding, or be rejected as a mere chimera. For 
this conception demands that something (A) should be of such a 
nature that something else (B) should follow from it necessarily, 
and according to an absolutely universal law. We may certain¬ 
ly collect from phenomena a law, according to which this or that 
usually happens, but the element of necessity is not to be found 
in it. Hence it is evident that to the synthesis of cause and 
effect belongs a dignity which is utterly wanting in any empiri¬ 
cal synthesis.”* 

Referring to what was said in discussing Hume’s theory of 
causation, we may pass on to Dr. Whewell’s re-statement ot 
Kant’s views: 

“ That this idea of cause is not derived from experience, we 
prove (as in former cases) by this consideration : that we can 
make assertions, involving this idea, which are rigorously neces¬ 
sary and universal; whereas knowledge derived from experience 
can only be true as far as experience goes, and can never contain 
in itself any evidence whatever of its necessity. We assert that 
“ every Event must have a Causeand this proposition we 
know to be true, not only probably and generally and as far as 
we can see ; but we cannot suppose it to be false in any single 
instance. We are as certain of it as we are of the truths of 
arithmetic and geometry. We cannot doubt that it must apply 
to all events, past, present, and to come, in every part of the 
universe, just as truly as to those occurrences which we have 
ourselves observed. What causes produce what effects ;—what 
is the cause of any particular event; what will be the effect of 
any peculiar process ; these are points on which experience 
may enlighten us. But that every event must have some cause, 
Experience cannot prove any more than she can disprove. She 


* Transcendental. LogiJc, § 9 (Transl. p. 76). 




662 


KANT. 


can add nothing to the evidence of the truth, however often she 
may exemplify it. This doctrine then cannot have been acquired 
by her teaching : and the Idea of Cause which the doctrine in¬ 
volves, and on which it depends, cannot have come into our 
minds from the region of observation.”* 

There is one minor point in this argument which we must no¬ 
tice first. Dr. Whewell says that the proposition “ Every event 
must have a cause” cannot possibly be false in any one instance. 
We think there is one, which he himself would admit; but to 
make it clear, we must substitute an equivalent for “ event.” 
The abstract formula of causation is this : “ Every existence pre¬ 
supposes some Cause of its existence : ex nihilo nihil Jit.” And 
this formula is employed against the atheists, to prove that the 
world could not have made itself out of Nothing, ergo it must 
have had a Cause. Now the obvious answer has often been 
given, namely, that the Cause itself must have had a Cause, and 
so on ad injinitum. Nevertheless, as reason repugns such an 
argument, and as it declares that somewhere the chain of causes 
and effects must stop, in that very declaration it falsifies the 
formula of causation—“ Every existence must have a cause.” 

Let not this be thought quibbling; it is only an exposure of 
the weakness of the theory of causation. If that theory be cor¬ 
rect—if the formula is a necessary Truth, objectively as well as 
subjectively, the argument against atheism falls to the ground. 
For, would the atheist argue, this is the dilemma: either the 
chain of causes and effects must be extended to infinity ; or you 
must stop somewhere, and declare that the ultimate Existence 
has no cause. In the first case you fall into unlimited skepti¬ 
cism ; in the second you fall into atheism, because the world is 
an Existence of which we are assured: why, then, is not it the 
ultimate Existence ? You have no right to assume any prior 
cause ; if you must stop somewhere, it is more rational to stop 
there. 


* Philos. Ind. etc., vol. i. p. 159. 



kant’s fundamental principles. 662 

TLis dilemma admits of but one escape-bole, namely, the denial 
of the formula “ Every existence presupposes a cause” being any 
thing more than a psychological law. Curiously enough, the 
only loophole is in the doctrine maintained by David Hume—a 
doctrine for so many years supposed to be the inlet of theologi¬ 
cal skepticism! 

Our belief in the formula “ Every event must have a cause” is 
founded entirely on experience: is, indeed, nothing more than 
our experience generalized. 

To prove this, we will consider a single case of causation. A 
child burns his finger in the candle ; he then believes that a 
candle will always burn his fingers. Now we are asked how it 
is that the child is led to believe that the candle will always 
burn his finger; and the answer usually afforded is, that “ he is 
irresistibly led to believe in the uniformity of nature in other 
words, the idea of causality is a f undamental idea. 

We answer, The child believes the candle will burn, because 
the experience he has of a candle is precisely this experience ot 
its burning properties. Before he had burnt his finger, his ex¬ 
perience of a candle was simply of a bright thing which set 
paper alight. Having now extended his experience , the candle is 
to him a bright thing which sets paper alight, and which causes 
pain to his finger when placed in contact with it.* 

According to the well-known law of association, the flame of a 
candle, and pain to the finger applied to it, are united, and form 
one experience. This particular act of causation is therefore 
nothing but a simple experience to the child ; and for the per¬ 
fection of this experience it is in nowise needful to assume that 
the child has any belief in the “ connection of events,” or in the 
“ uniformity of the laws of Nature.” No fundamental idea is 
necessary for the particular belief.f Is it then necessary for the 


* See p. 486 sq where the argument is stated more fully, 
t This is denied by the thinkers wdiom we are now combating: they 
assume that the fundamental idea is necessary ; but this is a mere assump 



664 


KANT. 


belief in the general proposition—“ Every effect must have a 
cause ?” 

When Kant and the Kantists say that no particular act of 
causation can be inferred a priori (such, for example, as that fire 
will melt the solid wax); but that nevertheless causality itself 
can be inferred a priori , i. e. we are constrained to believe that 
something will follow the application of fire to the wax, and this 
a priori judgment is independent of experience,—they seem to 
me to fall into the error of confounding the general with the 
particular. No general proposition is possible except as an ex¬ 
pression of particular propositions ; and all particular proposi¬ 
tions are the expression of particular experiences. “ That all 
lions are carnivorous” is only intelligible as a general proposition 
after one or more lions have been recognized as carnivorous; 
that “ every effect must have a cause” is only conceivable after 
many particular experiences of causes and effects. No particular 
act of causation can be inferred a priori , because for each par¬ 
ticular inference we need the basis of particular experience; but 
general causation seems possible to be inferred a priori , because 
in the full-statured mind general causation has a basis of general 
experience. I must know that fire does melt wax, before I can 
infer that it will melt wax ; but I can infer that fire will do 
something to wax, after my general experience of fire is, that it 
has always done something to bodies. This general inference is 
founded on and limited by general experience, in the same way 
as particular inferences are founded on particular experience. 
The uncultured mind will be as powerless to deduce the general 
inference, as the cultured mind is, to deduce the particular in¬ 
ference, a priori; and so true is this, that only philosophical 
thinkers are capable of steadily believing in that causality which 
Dr. Whewell designates as a fundamental idea. 

Thus, belief in particular laws of causation is no more than 
belief in our experience; and if we are asked why w r e believe 


tion made for the purpose of saving their theory, an assumption of the very 
point at issue. 



rant’s fundamental principles. 


665 


that our future experience will resemble tlie past, we answer, be¬ 
cause we have no other possible belief of things than that which 
is formed by experience: we cannot possibly believe the candle 
as not burning us in future, because our experience of a candle 
has been, that it docs burn, and our beliefs cannot transcend the 
experience which made them. 

As to the belief in universal causation, we may prove iu vari¬ 
ous ways that it is the result of a mere act of generalization; and 
this very act itself is strictly limited by experience: that is to 
say, we are led by the laws of our mind to judge of the unknown 
according to the known. Thus, having found every event which 
has come under our cognizance produced by some cause, we con¬ 
clude that every possible event must have a cause. We judge 
of the unknown by the known. Familiar illustrations of this 
generalizing tendency are those rash judgments formed of na¬ 
tions and of classes, and founded on the experience of a single 
fact. Thus we once heard it gravely asserted, that “all French 
babies had long noses.” The person asserting it had seen a 
French baby with a long uose. Now the only conception of a 
French baby in this person’s mind was that of a baby with a 
long nose. That was the type according to which all unseen, 
unknown babies were judged. Not being a very reflective per¬ 
son, he could not divest himself of his conception, and he could 
not believe that his conception was not true of all French babies. 
Had he never seen other French babies, he would perhaps have 
died in the belief that they all had long noses; unless some 
better-informed person had corrected this conception by his 
larger experience. So, if we had only the experience of one fact 
of causation, we should always believe in that fact—we should 
always believe that all candles would burn. To make many 
similar experiences of the conjunction of cause and effect, is not 
only to have many beliefs in particular acts of causation, it is 
also to collect materials for a wide generalization, and from these 
known conjunctions to pronounce that formula of universal con¬ 
junction applied to unknown and yet unborn events. 


666 


KANT. 


This latter process, however, is performed by few. All believe 
irresistibly in particular acts of causation. Few believe in uni¬ 
versal causation; and those few not till after considerable reflec¬ 
tion. Philosophers, indeed, assure us that this belief is univer¬ 
sal; that it is an instinct; a law of the mind; a Fundamental 
Idea. If philosophers would take the trouble to inquire amongst 
intelligent people, they would find that, so far from the belief in 
question being instinctive and irresistible, the great majority 
have no consciousness at all of such an instinct—the belief never 
having once presented itself to their minds—the proposition re¬ 
quiring a great deal of explanation and argument before it can 
be received ; and amongst those persons many would absolutely 
refuse to admit the truth of the proposition. Those who live 
only amongst philosophers will doubt this. We can, however, 
declare that it has more than once come within our experience. 
We have argued with a student of chemistry, whom we found 
it impossible to convince that the law “ Every event has some 
cause” is universal. Fie not only could conceive it to be other¬ 
wise in the moon; but he looked upon our argument as an un¬ 
warrantable assumption. The mystery of this was, that he had 
never read any metaphysics, and had but mediocre powers of 
ratiocination. What shall we say to an instinctive belief, which, 
unlike all other instinctive beliefs, does not spontaneously present 
itself to our consciousness; and when presented, is with the ut¬ 
most difficulty accepted ; and accepted only by some ? Com¬ 
pare this with any other instinctive belief—that in the existence 
of an external world, for instance—and see what characters the 
two have in common. Ask a boor if he believe in the existence 
of the world, and he will think you mad to ask him. Ask an 
ordinary man if he believe that every effect must have a cause, 
and the chances are that he will tell you he does not know; you 
will find it difficult to make him understand the necessity. 

Nay, to leave ordinary men, and to confine ourselves to phi¬ 
losophers, amongst them we shall find that, with respect to one 
class of phenomena, more than one-half of the thinking world 


kant’s fundamental trinciples. 667 

is firmly convinced that every effect does not imply a cause : the 
class of phenomena referred to are those of human volitions. All 
those who espouse the doctrine of Freedom of the Will declare 
that all our volitions are self-caused,—that is to say, our volitions 
are not caused by any thing external to themselves, not deter¬ 
mined by any prior fact. 

If, then, speculative men can be led to believe that one large 
class of phenomena is not amenable to the law of cause and ef¬ 
fect, what becomes of the universality of causation? And if 
speculative men can conceive the laws of cause and effect to be 
absent from some phenomena, and ordinary men do not con¬ 
ceive these laws to be universally applicable, what becomes 
of the necessity? And if the mass of mankind require a con¬ 
siderable quantity of argument and explanation to make them 
understand the proposition, what becomes of the instinctive 
belief? 

It is argued that a belief in a particular act of causation is 
only possible on the assumption of a fundamantal idea of causal¬ 
ity inherent in the mind; that, although a child may never have 
had the formula “ Every effect must have a cause” presented to 
his mind, nevertheless this formula is implicitly in his mind, 
otherwise he would have no reason for believing in the particu¬ 
lar act; it must exist as a fundamental idea. We might as 
rationally argue that a child cannot have an idea of a man with¬ 
out previously having a fundamental idea of humanity. 

The fallacy lies in this: the fundamental idea of causality is a 
generalization. Now, of course, the general includes the partic¬ 
ulars ; but, though it includes , yet it does not precede them, and 
the error is in supposing that it must and does precede them. A 
boy, as Locke says, knows that his whole body is larger than his 
finger; but he knows this from his perceptions of the two, not 
from any knowledge of the axiom that the “ whole is greater 
than a part.” Dr. Whewell would say that he could not have 
such knowledge unless he had the fundamental idea; whereas, 
we side with Locke in asserting that the mind in such cases 


668 


KANT. 


never begins with generalities, but ends with them; and to say. 
that because the general axiom implies the particular instance, 
or that the particular instance implies the general axiom, there¬ 
fore the axiom is independent of experience, is to cheat one’s self 
with words. 

The belief in causation is belief founded upon the experience 
of particular acts of causation. 

The irresistible tendency we have to anticipate that the future 
course of events will resemble the past, is simply that we have 
experience only of the past, and, as we cannot transcend our ex¬ 
perience, we cannot conceive things really existing otherwise 
than as we have known them. From this we draw a conclusion 
strikingly at variance with the doctrine maintained by Kant and 
Dr. Whewell. We say, that the very fact of our being com¬ 
pelled to judge of the unknown by the known—of our irresisti¬ 
bly anticipating that the future course of events will resemble 
the past—of our incapacity to believe that the same effects 
should not follow from the same causes—this very fact is a 
triumphant proof of our having no ideas not acquired through 
experience. If we had d priori ideas, these, as independent of, 
and superior to, all experience, would enable us to judge the un¬ 
known according to some other standard than that of the known. 
But no other standard is possible for us. We cannot by any 
effort believe that things will not always have the properties we 
have experienced in them; as long as they continue to exist, we 
must believe them to exist as we know them. 

Although belief in particular acts of causation is irresistible 
and universal, yet belief in the general proposition “ Every effect 
must have a cause” is neither irresistible nor universal, but i3 
entertained only by a small portion of mankind. Consequently 
the theory of a priori ideas independent of all experience, re¬ 
ceives no support from the idea of Causality. 

In a “ Letter to the Author of the Prolegomena Logical Dr. 
Whewell has restated his views, to meet the objections of his 
critics; and as this is the latest development of the Kantian 


kant’s fundamental principles. 660 

doctrine which I have seen, it may not be uninstmctive to con¬ 
sider it. 

Dr. Whe well’s main positions are, that Necessary Truths, or 
Fundamental Ideas, are independent of experience, and are in¬ 
tuitions, which are seen not only to be true, but necessarily true, 
because their contraries are inconceivable. The only condition 
presupposed is, that the Ideas be clearly conceived. He says: 
“I lay stress on the condition that the Ideas must be clearly and 
distinctly possessed. The Idea of Space must be quite clear in 
the mind, or else the Axioms of Geometry will not be seen to be 
true: there will be no intuition of their truth; and for a mind 
in such a state, there can be no Science of Geometry. A man 
may have a confused and perplexed, or a vacant and inert state 
of mind, in which it is not clearly apparent to him, that two 
straight lines cannot inclose a space. But this is not a frequent 
case. The Idea of Space is much more commonly clear in the 
minds of men than the other Ideas on which science depends, as 
Force or Substance. It is much more common to find minds in 
which these latter Ideas are not so clear and distinct as to make 
the Axioms of Mechanics or of Chemistry self-evident. Indeed, 
the examples of a state of mind in which the Ideas of Force or 
of Substance are so clear as to be made the basis of science, are 
comparatively few. They are the examples of minds scientifi¬ 
cally cultivated, at least to some extent. Hence, though the 
Axioms of Mechanics or of Chemistry may be, in their own na¬ 
ture, as evident as those of Geometry, they are not evident to so 
many persons, nor at so early a period of intellectual or scientific 
culture. And this being the case, it is not surprising that some 
persons should doubt whether these Axioms are evident at all; 
I should think that it is an error to assert that there exist, in 
such sciences as Mechanics or Chemistry, Fundamental Ideas fit 
to be classed with Space, as being, like it, the origin of Axioms.” 

Aware that many of these intuitive ideas are so far from being 
universally acknowledged that many persons can conceive the 
contraries, he adds : 


670 


KANT. 


“This difficulty has been strongly urged by Mr. Mill, as sup* 
porting his view, that all knowledge of truth is derived from ex¬ 
perience. And in order that the opposite doctrine, which I have 
advocated, may not labor under any disadvantages which really 
do not belong to it, I must explain, that I do not by any means 
assert that those truths which I regard as necessary, are all 
equally evident to common thinkers, or evident to persons in alt 
stages of intellectual development. I may even say, that some 
of those truths which I regard as necessary, and the necessity of 
which I believe the human mind to be capable of seeing, by due 
preparation and thought, are still such, that this amount of prep¬ 
aration and thought is rare and peculiar; and I will willingly 
grant, that to attain to and preserve such a clearness and subtlety 
of mind as this intuition requires, is a task of no ordinary diffi¬ 
culty and labor .” 

What, it may be asked, is all this preparation, and labor, but 
experience ? If these Fundamental Ideas are “ Intuitions” which 
cannot be given by experience, but are above and beyond it, 
how is all this experience needed before these Necessary Truths 
can be seen to be true? Dr. Whewell is ready with his 
answer: 

“ That some steady thought, and even some progress in the 
construction of Science, is needed in order to see the necessity 
of the Axioms thus introduced, is true, and is repeatedly asserted 
and illustrated in the History of the Sciences. The necessity of 
such Axioms is seen, but it is not seen at first. It becomes 
clearer and clearer to each person, and clear to one person after 
another, as the human mind dwells more and more steadily on 
the several subjects of speculation. There are scientific truths 
which are seen by intuition, but this intuition is progressive. This 
is the remark which I wish to make, in answer to those of my 
critics who have objected that truths which I have propounded 
as Axioms, are not evident to all.” 

That this is no answer at all, but is virtually a concession of 
the very point in dispute, will be seen by an attentive perusal of 


kant’s fundamental principles. 671 

the following passage, wherein he brings his new form of the 
doctrine into greater distinctness: 

“An able writer in the Edinburgh Review (No. 193 , p. 29 ) 
has, in like manner, said, ‘Dr. Whewell seems to us to have gone 
much too far in reducing to necessary truths what assuredly the 
generality of mankind will not feel to be so.’ It is a fact which 
I do not at all contest, that the generality of mankind will not 
feel the Axioms of Chemistry, or even of Mechanics, to be ne¬ 
cessary truths. But I had said, not that the generality of man¬ 
kind would feel this necessity, but (in a passage just before quoted 
by the Reviewer) that the mind, under certain circumstances, 
attains a point of view from which it can pronounce mechanical 
(and other) fundamental truths to be necessary in their nature, 
though disclosed to us by experience and observation .” 

If these truths, said to be intuitive and independent of expe¬ 
rience, are by Dr. Whewell confessed to be “ disclosed by expe¬ 
rience,” there can be but one point of separation between him 
and his critics; and, if I have understood him aright, that point 
is the character of “ necessity,” which, in common with Kant, he 
ascribes to these truths. The fundamental ideas, when seen, are 
seen to be not only true, but necessarily true; and in this neces¬ 
sity lies their distinctive characteristic. 

I conceive that no such distinction whatever can be made out 
between truths which are necessary and truths which are contin¬ 
gent. All truth is necessary truth. Although all opinions are 
by no means of one character, some being evident, some prob¬ 
able, some very uncertain; yet all truths are true. That “ fire 
burns” is a truth as “ necessary” as that two parallel lines cannot 
inclose space. That sulphur has a greater affinity for iron 
than for lead, is a truth as “ necessary” as that the whole is 
greater than a part. That iron-rust is owing to the action ot 
oxygen, is as “necessary” a truth as that two and two make 
four. It is our knowledge which is contingent, not the truth 
itself. We may be in error when we believe the fact of sul¬ 
phur’s greater affinity for iron than for lead; in matters so ill- 


672 


IvANT. 


understood as chemical actions, error is very conceivable, and 
our supposed truth may turn out a misconception ; but if the re¬ 
lation be truly stated, the truth is as “ necessary” as that two and 
two make four. The whole question, therefore, that can be 
raised, is: Is the asserted relation true ? and not, Is the truth 
necessary ? 

To make this clearer, let us, instead of the proposition “two 
and two make four,” substitute “seventy-two and one hundred 
and forty make two hundred and twelve.” In the one case error 
is impossible; by no freak of thought can we conceive two and 
two as making five; the truth is perceived directly, and the in¬ 
conceivability of the contrary is confessed. In the latter case 
error is very possible; unless a careful calculation be made, the 
mind may fall into error, i. e. conceive the contrary of what is 
true. But in each case the truth expressed is the relation of 
numbers, which we ascertain by experience. So also the prop¬ 
osition “ fire burns” is a necessary truth, the contrary to which 
is as inconceivable as the contrary of “two parallel lines can 
never inclose space.” For although we can imagine it “ possible” 
that fire, under some circumstances, should not burn, we can 
only imagine it by mentally substituting for fire some other thing 
called by that name, just as we can only imagine parallel lines 
inclosing space by mentally bending the lines, and making them 
other than parallel. 

Truths are nothing but perceived relations; some of these re¬ 
lations are so simple, are so universally presented to our expe¬ 
rience, that w r e cannot conceive them to be otherwise; and thus 
no freak of thought will enable us to conceive fire not burning, 
two and two making five, or parallel lines inclosing space; while 
other relations are so complicated, or so unfamiliar, that we very 
easily conceive the possibility of their being otherwise. The 
oxidation of substances is so familiar to the chemist, that he can¬ 
not conceive what to the general public is very conceivable; the 
relations of lines aud surfaces are so familiar to the geometer, 
that he cannot conceive the contrary of Euclid’s propositions: 


rant’s fundamental principles. 


673 


to him they are irresistible truths; but he can remember the 
time when they were by no means irresistible. Dr. Whewell 
explains this difference by the difference in the clearness with 
which the geometer “possesses the Idea of Space,” a clearness 
only to be obtained through great labor and training of the mind ; 
and we think no philosopher ever propounded any other expla¬ 
nation, certainly no philosopher belonging to the school which 
derives all our ideas from experience. 

The distinction, then, between the so-called Necessary and 
Contingent Truths, is not that the former are independent of ex¬ 
cellence, and are truths seen to be necessarily true, while the latter 
are seen to be contingently true, the contraries being conceiv¬ 
able. All truths are seen to be necessarily true, if they are seen 
to be true at all; and the character of contingency is not appli¬ 
cable to the relations expressed in certain formulas, but solely to 
the modes in which we got at those formulas: the contingency 
of “ seventy-two and one hundred and forty making two hundred 
and twelve,” is the liability of our miscalculating; and the prop¬ 
osition is a contingent one until we have so checked our calcu¬ 
lation as to be certain we have ascertained the true relations. 
Thus it is held that all animals with incisor teeth are carnivorous; 
we have ascertained it by our universal experience of carnivorous 
animals; but, strong as the presumption is that the relation is 
true, w r e are forced to consider it a contingent truth, because 
there is a possibility of our experience some day detecting an 
exception; just as exceptions have been detected to the general 
relation between comparative length of the intestine in herbiv¬ 
orous, and shortness of it in carnivorous, animals, but we never 
call the proposition “ a whole is greater than its part” a contin¬ 
gent truth, because no extension of experience could alter rela¬ 
tions so simple and so universal; we cannot call “fire burns pa¬ 
per” a contingent truth, because no extension of experience can 
alter relations so simple: if, by way of exception, a case of in¬ 
combustible paper be exhibited, we know that the original prop¬ 
osition meant ordinary paper, and not paper of different prop- 


674 


KANT. 


erties. We cannot call the truth “sugar is sweet” contingent, be¬ 
cause any extension of our experience which made us acquainted 
with sugar not sweet, would bring forward some other kind of thing 
than that which we designate by the name of sugar. We can¬ 
not call the truth “iron is heavy” contingent. We can call no 
truths contingent except those which express relations either 
complicated or unfamiliar; simplicity of relation implying di¬ 
rectness of perception, and universality of experience coercing 
the mind into uniformity of expectation. The Fundamental 
Ideas which Dr. Whewell distinguishes as Necessary Truths, are 
nothing more than ideas framed in our minds by the uniformity 
of our experience. And thus we return to the old position, that 
experience, and experience alone, is the source of all ideas. 

If the foregoing arguments are valid, what becomes of Kant’s 
system ? We are forced to conclude, that inasmuch as his 
stronghold—the existence of a 'priori ideas—cannot sustain at¬ 
tack, the entrance of the enemy Skepticism is inevitable. Kant 
was not a skeptic ; but he deceived himself in supposing that his 
system was any safeguard from Skepticism. 

The veracity of Consciousness, which he had so laboriously 
striven to establish, and on which his Practical Reason was 
based, is only a relative, subjective veracity. Experience is the 
only basis of Knowledge ; and Experience leads to Skepticism. 


NINTH EPOCH. 


ONTOLOGY RE-ASSERTS ITS CLAIM.—THE DEMONSTRATION 
OF THE SUBJECTIVITY ONCE MORE LEADS TO IDEALISM. 


CHAPTER I. 

FICHTE. 

§ I. Life of Fichte. 

Johann Gottlieb Fichte was born at Rammenau, a village 
lying between Bischofswerda and Pulsniz, in Upper Lusatia, on 
the 19th May, 1762.* 

His childhood, of which many touching anecdotes are related, 
was signalized by extraordinary intellectual capacity and great 
moral energy. He was a precocious child, and long before he 
was old enough to be sent to school he learned many things 
from his hither, who taught him to read, and taught him the 
pious songs and proverbs which formed his own simple stock ot 
erudition. With these various studies was mixed an enchanting 
element—the stories of his early wanderings in Saxony and 
Franconia, stories to which young Johann listened with never- 
tiring eagerness. It was probably the vague longings which 
these recitals inspired, that made him wander into the fields*, 
quitting his companions, boisterous in mirth, to roam away and 
enjoy the luxury of solitude, there to give vent to the indul- 

* See the biography by Fichte’s son— Fichte's Leben und literarischer 
Britfwechsel, 2 vols., 1836. 

46 




0*76 


FICHTE. 


gence of those unspeakable longings. This pale and meditative 
child is at ease in solitude. He stands for hours, gazing in the 
far distance, or in mournful yearning at the silent sky over¬ 
arching him. The sun goes down, and the boy returns home 
melancholy with the twilight. lie does this so constantly that 
neighbors remark it; comment on it; and, in after-years, when 
that boy has become a renowned man, they recur to it with sud¬ 
den pleasure, not forgetting also that they had “ always said 
there was something remarkable in the boy.” 

Fichte’s progress was so rapid that he was soon intrusted with 
the office of reading family prayers; and his father cherished 
the hope of one day seeing him a clergyman. An event curious 
in itself, and very important in its influence on his subsequent 
career, soon occurred, which favored that hope, and went far to 
realize it. But before we relate it we must give a touching 
anecdote, which exhibits Fichte’s heroic self-command in a verv 
interesting light.* 

o O 

The first book which fell into his hands after the Bible and 
Catechism, was the renowned history of Siegfried the Homed , 
and it seized so powerfully on his imagination, that he lost all 
pleasure in any other employment, became careless and neglect¬ 
ful, and, for the first time in his life, was punished. Then, in 
the spirit of the injunction which tells us to cut off our right 
hand if it cause us to offend, Fichte resolved to sacrifice the be¬ 
loved book, and, taking it in his hand, walked slowly to a stream 
flowing past the house, with the intention of throwing it in. Long 
he lingered on the bank, ere he could muster courage for this first 
self-conquest of his life; but at length, summoning all his reso¬ 
lution, he flung it into the water. Ilis fortitude gave way as he 
saw the treasure, too dearly loved, floating away forever, and he 
burst into a passionate flood of tears. Just at this moment the 
father arrived on this spot, and the weeping child told what*he 

* For both anecdotes we are indebted to a very interesting article on 
Fichte which appeared in the Foreign Quarterly Review , No. 71. We have 
abridged the passages ; otherwise the narrative is unaltered. 



LIFE OF FICHTE. 


677 


had done ; but either from timidity or incapacity to explain his 
feelings, was silent as to his true motive. Irritated at this treat¬ 
ment of his present, Fichte’s father inflicted upon him an un¬ 
usually severe punishment, and this occurrence formed a fitting 
prelude to his after-life, in which he was so often misunderstood, 
and the actions springing from the purest convictions of duty, 
were exactly those for which he had most to suffer. When a 
sufficient time had elapsed for the offence to be in some measure 
forgotten, the father brought home another of these seducing 
books; but Fichte dreaded being again exposed to the tempta¬ 
tion, and begged that it might rather be given to some of the 
other children. 

It was about this time that the other event before alluded to 
occurred. The clergyman of the village, who had taken a fancy 
to Gottlieb and often assisted in his instruction, happened one 
day to ask him how much he thought he could remember of the 
sermon of the preceding day. Fichte made the attempt, and, to 
the astonishment of the pastor, succeeded in giving a very toler¬ 
able account of the course of argument, as well as of the texts 
quoted in its illustration. The circumstance was mentioned to 
the Count von Iloffmansegg, the lord of the village, and one day 
another nobleman, the Baron von Mittiz, who was on a visit at 
the castle, happening to express his regret at having been too 
late for the sermon on the Sunday morning, he was told, half in 
jest, that it was of little consequence, for that there was a boy in 
the village who could repeat it all from memory. Little Gott¬ 
lieb was sent for, and soon arrived in a clean smock-frock and 
bearing a large nosegay, such as his mother was accustomed to 
send to the castle occasionally as a token of respect. He an¬ 
swered the first questions put to him with his accustomed quiet 
simplicity ; but when asked to repeat as much as he could recol¬ 
lect of the morning’s sermon, his voice and manner became more 
animated, and, as he proceeded, entirely forgetting the presence 
of the formidable company, he became so fervid and abundant 
in his eloquence, that the Count thought it necessary to interrupt 


G78 


FICHTE. 


him, lest the playful tone of the circle should be destroyed by 
the serious subjects of the sermon. The young preacher had 
however made some impression on his auditory ; the Baron 
made inquiries concerning him, and the clergyman, wishing for 
nothing more than an opportunity to serve his favorite, gave such 
an account that the Baron determined to undertake the charge 
of his education. He departed, carrying his protege with him, 
to his castle of Siebeneichen, in Saxony, near Meissen, on the 
Kibe; and the heart of the poor village boy sank, as he beheld 
the gloomy grandeur of the baronial hall, and the dark oak for¬ 
ests by which it was surrounded, llis first sorrow, his severest 
trial, had come in the shape of what a misjudging world might 
regard ns a singular piece of good fortune, and so deep a dejec¬ 
tion fell on him, as seriously to endanger his health, llis patron 
here manifested the really kindly spirit by which he had been 
actuated ; ho entered into the feelings of the child, and removed 
him from the lordly mansion to the abode of a country clergy¬ 
man in the neighborhood, who was passionately fond of children, 
and had none of his own. Under the truly paternal care of this 
excellent man, Fichte passed some of the happiest years of his 
life, and to its latest day looked back to them with tenderness 
and gratitude. The affectionate care of this amiable couple, who 
shared with him every little domestic pleasure, and treated him 
in every respect as if he had been indeed their son, was always 
remembered by him with the liveliest sensibility, and certainly 
exorcised a most favorable influence on his character. 

In this family, Fichte received his first instruction in the lan¬ 
guages of antiquity, in which, however, he was left much to his 
own efforts, seldom receiving what might bo called a regular les¬ 
son. This plan, though it undoubtedly invigorated and sharpened 
his faculties, left him imperfectly acquainted with grammar, and 
retarded, in some measure, his subsequent progress at Schul- 
pforte, llis kind preceptor soon perceived the inefficiency of his 
own attainments for advancing the progress of so promising a 
pupil, and urged his patron to obtain for Fichte what appeared 


LIFE OF FfCHTE. 


679 


to him the advantages of a high school. He was accordingly 
sent, first to Meissen, and afterwards to the seminary at Schul- 
pforte. 

There the system of fagging existed in full force, and with its 
usual consequences, tyranny on the one side, dissimulation and 
cunning on the other. Even Fichte, whose native strength of 
character in some measure guarded him from evil influences that 
might have been fatal to a mind of a feebler order, confesses that 
his life at Schulpforte was any thing but favorable to his integ¬ 
rity. lie found himself gradually reconciled to the necessity of 
ruling his conduct by the opiniou of the little community around 
him, and compelled to practice occasionally the same artifices as 
others, if he w’ould not with all his talents and industry be al- 
ways left behind. 

J • 

Into this microcosm of contending forces the boy of thirteen, 
nurtured amidst lonely hills and silent forests, now found himself 
thrown. The monastic gloom of the buildings contrasted, at 
first, most painfully with the joyous freedom of fields and woods, 
where lie had been accustomed to wander at will; but still more 
painfully, the solitude of the moral desert. Shy and shrinking 
within himself he stood, and the tears which furnished only sub¬ 
jects of mockery to his companions, were forced back, or taught 
to flow only in secret. Here, however, he learned the useful les¬ 
son of self-reliance, so well, though so bitterly taught by want of 
sympathy in those around us, and from this time to the close of 
his life it was never forgotten. It was natural that the idea of 
escape should occur to a boy thus circumstanced, but the dread 
of being retaken and brought back in disgrace to Schulpforte, 
occasioned hesitation. While brooding over this project, it hap¬ 
pened that he met with a copy of Robinson Crusoe , and his en¬ 
thusiasm, the enthusiasm of thirteen, was kindled into a blaze. 
The desert should be his dwelling-place! On some far-off island 
of the ocean, beyond the reach of men and the students of 
Schulpforte, he would pass golden days of freedom and happi¬ 
ness. It was a common boyish notion, but the manner in which 


680 


FICHTE. 


it was carried into execution, shows traces of the character of the 
individual. Nothing could have been easier than for him to 
have taken his departure unperceived on one of the days when 
the scholars were allowed to go to the playground; but he 
scorned to steal away in secret; he would have this step appear 
as the result of necessity and deliberate determination. He 
therefore made a formal declaration to his superior, a lad who 
had made a cruel and oppressive use of the brief authority in¬ 
trusted him, that he would no longer endure the treatment he 
received, but would leave the place at the first opportunity. As 
may be supposed, the announcement was received with sneers 
and laughter, and Fichte now considered himself in all honor 
free to fulfil his resolution. It was easy to find an opportunity, 
and accordingly, having taken the precaution to study his pro¬ 
posed route on the map, he set oft', and trudged on stoutly on 
the road to Naumberg. As he walked, however, he bethought 
himself of a saying of his beloved old pastor, that one should 
never begin an important undertaking without a prayer for Di¬ 
vine assistance; he turned, therefore, and kneeling down on a 
green hillock by the roadside, implored, in the innocent sincerity 
of his heart, the blessing of Heaven on his wanderings. As he 
prayed, it occurred to the new Robinson that his disappearance 
must occasion grief to his parents, and his joy in his wild scheme 
was gone in a moment. “Never, perhaps, to see his parents 
again!” This terrible thought suddenly presented itself with 
such force that he resolved to retrace his steps, and meet all the 
punishments that might be in store for him, “that he might 
look once more on the face of his mother.” 

On his return, he met those who had been sent in pursuit of 
him; for as soon as he had been missed, the “ Obergesell” had 
given information of what had passed between them. When 
carried before the Rector, Fichte immediately confessed that he 
had intended to escape, and at the same time related the whole 
story with such straightforward simplicity and openness, that the 
Rector became interested for him, and not only remitted his 


LIFE OF FICHTE. 


681 


punishment, but chose for him, among the elder lads, anothei 
master, who treated him with the greatest kindness, and to whom 
he became warmly attached. 

Fichte had become a Candidatus Theologise when his patron 
died, and with him died all hopes of being a clergyman. His 
prospects were gloomy in the extreme; but he was relieved from 
anxiety by being offered the situation of private tutor in a family 
in Switzerland. He soon after made acquaintance with Lavater 
and some other literary men. He also formed an attachment, 
which was to last him through life, with a niece of Klopstock. 

Fichte’s tutorship was remarkable. The parents of his pupils, 
although neither perfectly comprehending his plans, nor approv¬ 
ing of that part which they did comprehend, were nevertheless 
such admirers of his moral character—they stood in such re¬ 
spectful awe of him—that they were induced to submit their own 
conduct with respect to their children to his judgment. We 
presume that all well-meaning tutors occasionally make sugges¬ 
tions to parents respecting certain points in their conduct tow¬ 
ards the children; but Fichte’s plan is, we fancy, quite unexam¬ 
pled in the history of such relations. He kept a journal which 
he laid before them every week, and in which he had noted the 
faults of conduct of which they had been guilty. This lets us 
into the secret of Fichte’s firm and truthful character, as much 
as any thing we know about him. It was from such a soil that 
we might expect to find growing the moral doctrines which af¬ 
terwards made his name illustrious. But this domestic censor¬ 
ship could not last long; it lasted for two years; and that it 
should have lasted so long is, as has been remarked, strong ev¬ 
idence of the respect in which his character was held. But it 
was irksome, insupportable, and ended at length in mutual dis¬ 
satisfaction. He was forced to seek some other mode of subsist¬ 
ence. He went to Leipzig, where he gave private lessons in 
Greek and Philosophy, and became acquainted with the writings 
of Kant. This was an important event to him. Hear in what 
terms he speaks of it: 


682 


FICHTE. 


“ I have been living, for the last four or five months, in Leip¬ 
zig, the happiest life I can remember. I came here with my 
head full of grand projects, which all burst one after another, 
like so many soap-bubbles, without leaving me so much as the 
froth. At first this troubled me a little, and, half in despair, I 
took a step which I ought to have taken long before. Since I 
could not alter what was without me, I resolved to try to alter 
what was within. I threw myself into Philosophy—the Kantian, 
videlicet —and here I found the true antidote for all my evils, 
and joy enough into the bargain. The influence which this phi¬ 
losophy, particularly the ethical part of it (which, however, is 
unintelligible without a previous study of the Kritik der reinen 
Vernunft) has had upon my whole system of thought, the revo¬ 
lution which it has effected in my mind, is not to be described. 
To you especially I owe the declaration, that I now believe, with 
my whole heart, in free will, and that I see that under this sup¬ 
position alone can duty, virtue, and morality have any existence. 
From the opposite proposition, of the necessity of all human 
actions, must flow the most injurious consequences to society; 
and it may, in fact, be in part the source of the corrupt morals 
of the higher classes which we hear so much of. Should any 
one adopting it remain virtuous, we must look for the cause of 
his purity elsewhere than in the innocuousness of the doctrine. 
With many it is their want of logical consequence in their actions. 

“ I am furthermore well convinced, that this life is not the land 
of enjoyment, but of labor and toil, and that every joy is granted 
to us bn; to strengthen us for further exertion ; that the manage- 
ment of our own fate is by no means required of us, but only self¬ 
culture. I trouble myself, therefore, not at all concerning the 
things that are without; I endeavor not to appear, but to be. 
And to this, perhaps, I owe the deep tranquillity I enjoy; my 
external position, however, is well enough suited to such a frame 
of mind. I am no man’s master, and no man’s slave. As to 
prospects, I have none at all, for the constitution of the church 
here does not suit me, nor, to say the truth, that of the people 


LIFE OF FICHTE. 


G83 


either. As long as I can maintain my present independence I 
shall certainly do so. I have been for some time working at an 
explanatory abridgment of Kant’s Kritih der Urtheilskraft (Crit¬ 
ical Inquiry into the Faculty of Judgment), but I am afraid I 
shall be obliged to come before the public in a very immature 
state, to prevent being forestalled by a hundred vamped-up pub¬ 
lications. Should the child ever make its appearance, I will send 
it to you.”* 

It was in consequence of his admiration of Kant, that, after 
several ineffectual attempts to settle himself he went to Konings- 
berg. Instead of a letter of introduction, Fichte presented Kant 
with a work, written in eight days, and which bore the title of 
A Critique of every possible Revelation. Kant at once recognized 
his peer, and received him warmly. But Kant himself, though 
celebrated, was neither rich nor influential. Fichte’s affairs were 
desperate. We have his own confession in the fragment of a 
journal which he kept at the time. 

“28 tli August. —I yesterday began to revise my Critique. In 
the course of my meditation some new and excellent ideas were 
excogitated, which convinced me that my work was superficial. 
I endeavored to carry out my investigation to-day; but my im¬ 
agination led me so far away, that I could do nothing. I have 
reckoned my finances, and find that I have just enough to sub¬ 
sist on for a fortnight. It is true this is not the first time in my 
life that I have found myself in such an embarrassment, but I 
was then in my own country; besides, in growing older, one’s 
sense of honor becomes more delicate, and distress is more and 
more of a hardship. ... I have not been able to make any res¬ 
olution. I certainly shall not speak on the subject to M. Bor- 
owsky, to whom Kant has given me an introduction. If I speak 
to any one, it shall be to Kant himself. 

“ Sept. —I have made a resolution which I must commu- 


* It was never printed ; probably because, as he here anticipates, lie was 
forestalled. 



5S4 


FICHTE. 


nicate to Kant. A situation as tutor, however reluctantly I 
might accept it, does not even offer itself; while, on the other 
hand, the incertitude in which I am placed does not allow me to 
work. I must return home. I can perhaps borrow from Kant 
the small sum necessary for my journey. I went to him to-day 
for that purpose, but my courage foiled me ; I resolved to write 
to him. 

“ 2 d Sept .—I finished my letter to Kant, and sent it. 

“ 3 d Sept .—Received an invitation to dinner from Kant. He 
received me with his usual cordiality; but informed me that it 
would be quite out of his power to accede to my request for an¬ 
other fortnight. Such amiable frankness ! 

“ I have done nothing lately ; but I shall set myself to work, 
and leave the rest to Providence. 

“ 6th Sept .—Dined with Kant, who proposed that I should 
sell the MS. of my Critique to Hartung the bookseller. 4 It is 
admirably written,’ said he, when I told him I was going to re 
write it. Is that true ? It is Kant who says so. 

“ 12 th Sept .—I wanted to work to-day; but could do noth¬ 
ing. How will this end ? What will become of me a week 
hence ? Then all my money will be gone.” 

These extracts will not be read without emotion. They paint 
a curious picture in the life of our philosopher : a life which was 
little more than a perpetual and energetic combat. 

The Critique was published anonymously, and gained immense 
applause; partly, no doubt, because it was generally mistaken 
for the production of Kant himself. The celebrity he acquired 
when the authorship was disclosed, w 7 as the means of procuring 
him the chair of Philosophy at Jena, the offer of which was made 
him towards the end of 1793. 

Jena was then the leading University of Germany; and 
Fichte might flatter himself that at length he had a settled posi¬ 
tion, in which he might calmly develop his scientific views. 
But his was a Fighter’s destiny. Even here, at Jena, he found 
himself soon opposing and opposed. His endeavors to instil a 


685 


LIFE OF FICHTE. 

higher moral feeling into the students—his anxiety for their bet¬ 
ter culture—only brought on him the accusation of endeavoring 
to undermine the religious institutions of his country; and his 
speculative views brought on him the charge of atheism. 

Atheism is a grave charge, and yet how lightly made! The 
history of opinion abounds in instances of this levity; yet scarce¬ 
ly ever was a charge more groundless in appearance than that 
against Fichte, whose system was atheistic only in superficial ap¬ 
pearance. Nevertheless the cry was raised, and he had to battle 
against it. It is understood that the Government would have 
been willing to overlook the publication of the work which 
raised this cry, if Fichte had made any sort of explanatory modi¬ 
fication ; but he would not hear of it, tendered his resignation, 
and soon afterwards found an asylum in Prussia, where he occu¬ 
pied the Chair at Erlangen, and afterwards at Berlin. From 
his career at Berlin we will select one incident typical of his 
character. 

The students are assembled in crowds to hear their favorite 
professor, who is to lecture that day upon duty,—on that duty 
whose ideal grandeur his impassioned eloquence has revealed to 
them. Fichte arrives, calm and modest. He lectures with his 
usual dignified calmness, rising into fiery bursts of eloquence, but 
governed by the same marvellous rigor of logic as before. He 
leads them to the present state of affairs. On this topic he grows 
still more animated ; the rolling of drums without frequently 
drowning his voice, and giving him fresh spirit. He points to 
the bleeding wounds of his country; he warms with hatred 
against oppressors; and enforces it as the duty of every one to 
lend his single arm to save his country. 

“ This course of lectures,” he exclaims, “ will be suspended till 
the end of the campaign. We will resume them in a free coun¬ 
try, or die in the attempt to recover her freedom.” Loud shouts 
respondent ring through the hall; clapping of hands and stamp¬ 
ing of feet make answer to the rolling drums without; every 
German heart there present is moved, as at the sound of a 


636 


FICHTE. 


trumpet. Fichte descends; passes through the crowd; and 
places himself in the ranks of a corps of volunteers then depart¬ 
ing for the army. It is the commencement of the memorable 
eompaign of 1813. 

In another year he was no more; he fell, not by a French 
bullet, but by the fever caught while tending his loved wife, who 
herself had fallen a victim to her attendance on unknown suffer¬ 
ers. On the 28th of January, 1814, aged fifty-two, this noble 
Fichte expired. 

There are few characters which inspire more admiration than 
that of Fichte ; we must all admire “ that cold, colossal, ada¬ 
mantine spirit standing erect and clear, like a Cato Major among 
degenerate men; fit to have been the teacher of the Stoa, and 
to have discoursed of beauty and virtue in the groves of Aca¬ 
deme ! So robust an intellect, a soul so calm, so lofty, massive, 
and immovable has not mingled in philosophical discussion since 
the time of Luther. For the man rises before us amid contra¬ 
diction and debate like a granite mountain amid clouds and 
winds. Ridicule of the best that could be commanded has been 
already tried against him; but it could not avail. What was 
the wit of a thousand wits to him? The cry of a thousand choughs 
assaulting that old cliff of granite ; seen from the summit, these, 
as they winged the midway air, showed scarce so gross as bee¬ 
tles, and their cry was seldom even audible. Fichte’s opinions 
may be true or false; but his character as a thinker can be 
slightly valued only by those who know it ill; and as a man ap¬ 
proved by action and suffering, in his life and in his death, he 
ranks with a class of men who were common only in better ages 
than ours.”* 


§ II. Fichte’s Historical Position. 

Kant’s Criticism , although really leaving skepticism in posses¬ 
sion of the field, was nevertheless believed to have indicated a 


* Carlyle. 



fichte’s historical position. 


6S7 


new domain, in which a refuge might be found. The thought 
soon suggested itself that on this domain an indestructible tem¬ 
ple might be erected. Ivant had driven the piles deep down into 
the earth—a secure foundation was made; but Kant had de¬ 
clined building. 

© 

Jacobi, for one, saw in the principles of “ criticism” a path on 
which he could travel. lie maintained, that just as Sense was, 
according to Kant, a faculty whereby we perceived material 
things, so also was Reason a sense, a faculty, whereby we per¬ 
ceive the supersensual. 

It was indeed soon evident that men would not content them¬ 
selves with the mere negation to which Kant had reduced our 
knowledge of things^?* se. It was the positive part of his sys¬ 
tem they accepted and endeavored to extend. This attempt 
forms the matter of all the subsequent history of German Philos¬ 
ophy till Hegel. We will briefly state the nature of the dis¬ 
cussions which the result of Kant’s system had rendered im¬ 
perative. 

Kant had postulated the existence of an object as the neces¬ 
sary correlate to a subject. Knowledge was both objective and 
subjective ; but inasmuch as it was thus inseparably twofold it 
could never penetrate the essence of things—it could never know 
the object—it could only know phenomena. Hence the pro¬ 
blem was : 

What is the relation of object ancl subject? 

To solve this, it was necessary to penetrate the essence of 
things, to apprehend noumena. All the efforts of men were 
therefore to be directed towards this absolute science. The 
ground of all certitude being in the a priori ideas, an attempt 
was made to construct a priori the whole system of human 
Knowledge. 

The Ego was the necessary basis of the new edifice. Conscious- 
ness } as alone certainy was proclaimed the ground upon which ab¬ 
solute science must rest. 

Fichte’s position is here clearly marked out. His sole object 


6S8 


FICHTE. 


was to construct a science out of consciousness, and thereon to 
found a system of morals. 

Let us at the outset request the reader to give no heed to any 
of the witticisms which he may hear, or which may suggest 
themselves to him on a hasty consideration of Fichte’s opinions. 
That the opinions are not those of ordinary thinkers, we admit; 
that they are repugnant to all “ common sense,” we must also 
admit; that they are false, we believe: but we also believe 
them to have been laborious products of an earnest mind, the 
consequences of admitted premises, drawn with singular audacity 
and subtlety, and no mere caprices of ingenious speculation—no 
paradoxes of an acute but trifling mind. 

It was within him that he found a lamp to light him on his 
path. Deep in the recesses of his soul, beneath all understand¬ 
ing, superior to all logical knowledge, there lay a faculty by 
which truth, absolute truth, might be known. 

“I have found the organ,” he says in his Bestiinmung des 
Menscken, “by which to apprehend all reality. It is not the 
understanding; for all knowledge supposes some higher knowl¬ 
edge on which it rests, and of this ascent there is no end. It is 
Faith, voluntarily reposing on views naturally presenting them¬ 
selves to us, because through these views alone we can fulfil our 
destiny, which sees our knowledge, and pronounces that ‘ it is 
good,’ and raises it to certainty and conviction. It is no knowl¬ 
edge, but a resolution of the will to admit tliis^ knowledge. 
This is no mere verbal distinction, but a true and deep one, 
pregnant with the most important consequences. Let me for¬ 
ever hold fast by it. All my conviction is but faith, and it pro¬ 
ceeds from the will and not from the understanding; from the 
will also, and not from the understanding, must all the true cul¬ 
ture proceed. Let the first only be firmly directed towards the 
Good, the latter will of itself apprehend the True. Should the 
latter be exercised and developed while the former remains 
neglected, nothing can come of it but a facility in vain and end¬ 
less sophistical subtleties refining away into the absolutely void 


fichte’s historical position. 


689 


inane. I know that every seeming truth, born of thought alone, 
and not ultimately resting on faith, is false and spurious; for 
knowledge, purely and simply such, when carried to its utmost 
consequences, leads to the conviction that we can know nothing ! 
Such knowledge never finds any thing in the conclusions, which 
it has not previously placed in the premises by faith ; and even 

then its conclusions are not always correct.Every human 

creature born into the world has unconsciously seized on the 

this ^tuitive faith. 
If in mere knowledge—in mere perception and reflection—we 
can discover no ground for regarding our mental presentations 
as more than mere pictures, why do we all nevertheless regard 
them as more, and imagine for them a basis, a substratum inde¬ 
pendent of all modifications ? If we all possess the capacity and 
the instinct to go beyond this natural view of things, why do so 
few of us follow this instinct, or exercise this capacity?—nay, 
why do we even resist with a sort of bitterness when we are 
urged towards this path ? What holds us imprisoned in these 
natural boundaries ? Not inferences of our reason; for there 
are none which could do this. It is our deep interest in reality 
that does this—in the good that we are to produce—in the com¬ 
mon and the sensuous that we are to enjoy. From this interest 
can no one who lives detach himself, and just as little from the 
faith which forces itself upon him simultaneously with his exist¬ 
ence. We are all born in faith, and he who is blind follows 
blindly the irresistible attraction. He who sees follows by sight, 
and believes because he will believe.”* 

Here the limit set by Kant is overleaped: a knowledge of 
realities is affirmed. But it is not enough to affirm such a 
knowledge; we must prove it. To prove this is the mission of 
Philosophy. 

Fichte, who thought himself a true Ivantist, although Kant 
very distinctly and publicly repudiated him, declared that the 

* We adopt the translation of Mrs. Percy Sinnett: Destination of Man , 
London, 1S46. 


reality which exists for him alone throng 




690 


FICHTE. 


materials for a science had been discovered by Kant; nothing 
more was needed than a systematic co-ordination of these mate- 
rials-: and this task he undertook in his famous Doctrine of 
Science ( Wissenschaftslehre ). In this he endeavored to con 
struct a priori all knowledge. 


III. Basis of Fichte’s System. 


We are supposed to perceive external objects through the 
ideas which 

not warranted by the facts of consciousness. What is the fun¬ 
damental fact? It is that I have in my mind a certain idea. 
This, and this only, is primitively given. When we leave this 
fact in quest of an explanation, we are forced to admit either 
that this idea is spontaneously evolved by me ; or else some not- 
me —something different from myself—has excited it in me. 
Idealism or Dualism ? choose between them. 

Kant, unwilling to embrace idealism, and unable to conceive 
how the Ego spontaneously evolved within itself ideas of that 
■which it regarded as different from itself, postulated the exist¬ 
ence of a Non-Ego, but declared that we knew nothing of it. 
In this he followed Locke, and the majority of philosophers. 

Truly, said Fichte, we know nothing of it; we can only know 
that which passes within ourselves. Only so much as we are 
conscious of can we know; but in consciousness there is no ob¬ 
ject given, there is only an idea given. Are we forced by the 
very laws of our reason to suppose that there is Non-Ego exist¬ 
ing ?—are we forced to assume that these ideas are images of 
something out of us and independent of us ? To what does this 
dilemma bring us? Simply to this : that the very assumption, 
here called a necessary consequence of our mental constitution— 
this Non-Ego, which must be postulated, is, after all, nothing but 
a postulate of our reason; is therefore a product of the Ego. It 
is the Ego which thus creates the necessity for a Non-Ego; it is 
the Ego which thus, answering to the necessity , creates the Non- 
Ego wanted. Ideas, and nothing but ideas, are given in the 


ese objects excite in us. But this assumption is 


basis of ficiite’s system. 601 

primitive fact of consciousness. These are the products of the 
activity of the Ego; and not, as is so commonly asserted, the 
products of the passivity of the Ego. The soul is no passive 
mirror reflecting images. It is an active principle creating them. 
The soul is no lifeless receptivity. Were it not brimming over 
with life and activity, perception would be impossible. On^ 
stone does not perceive another. A mould does not perceive the 
liquid that is poured into it. 

Consciousness is in its very essence an activity. Well, then, 
if ‘n its activity it produces images, and if by the laws of its 
nature it is forced to assume that these images have some sub¬ 
stratum, what is this assumption but another form of the soul’s 
activity ? If the Ego is conscious of its changes, and yet is 
forced to attribute these changes to some external cause, what is 
this very act of assuming an external cause but the pure act of 
the Ego?—another change in the consciousness ? 

You admit that we cannot know Substance; all our knowl¬ 
edge is limited to accidents —to phenomena. But, you say, you 
are forced to assume a Substance as the basis of these accidents 
—a noumenon as that whereby phenomena are possible; and 
yet you cannot know this noumenon. Fichte answers: If you 
cannot know it, your assumption, as the mere product of your 
reason , is nothing more nor less than another form of the activity 
of the Ego . It is you who assume; and you assume what you 
call Substance. Substance is nothing but the synthesis of acci¬ 
dents. And it is a mental synthesis. 

Thus Fichte founded Idealism upon the basis of consciousness, 
which was the admitted basis of all certitude; and he not only 
founded idealism, but reduced the Ego to an activity, and all 
knowledge to au act. 

The activity of the Ego is of course an assumption, but it is 
the only assumption necessary for the construction of a science. 
That once admitted, the existence of the Non-Ego, as a product 
of the Ego, follows as a necessary consequence. 

Every one will admit that A = A ; or that A is A. This is 
47 


692 


FICHTE. 


an axiom which is known intuitively, and has no need of proof. 
It is the proposition of absolute identity ( Satz der Identitat). It 
is absolutely true. In admitting this to be absolutely true, we 
ascribe to the mind a faculty of knowing absolute truth. 

But in saying A equals A, w r e do not affirm the existence of A ; 
we only affirm that if A exist, then it must equal A. And the 

axiom teaches us not that A exists: but there is a necessary re- 

• * 

lation between a certain if and then ; and this necessary relation 
we will call X. But this relation, this X, is only in the Ego, 
comes only from the Ego. It is the Ego that judges in the pre¬ 
ceding axiom that A = A; and it judges by means of X. 

To reduce this to language a little less scholastic, we may say 
that, in every judgment which the mind makes, the act of judg¬ 
ing is an act of the Ego. 

But as the X is wholly in the Ego, so therefore is A in the 
Ego, and is posited hj the Ego. And by this we see that there 
is something in the Ego which is forever one and the same, and 
that is the X. Hence the formula, “ I am I: Ego = Ego.” 

We come here to the Cogito , ergo sum , of Descartes, as the 
basis of all certitude. The Ego posits itself, and is by means of 
this very self-positing. When I say “ I am,” I affirm, in con¬ 
sciousness, my existence; and this affirmation of my conscious¬ 
ness is the condition of my existence. The Ego is therefore at 
one and the same time both the activity and the product of ac¬ 
tivity ; precisely as thought is both the thinking activity, and 
the product thought. 

We will, for the present, spare the reader any further inflic¬ 
tion of such logical abstractions. He will catch in the foreo-oino- 
a glimpse of Fichte’s method, and be in some way able to esti¬ 
mate the strength of the basis on which idealism reposes. 

The great point Fichte has endeavored to establish is the 
identity of being and thought—of existence and consciousness— 
of object and subject. And he establishes this by means of the 
Ego considered as essentially an activity. 

Hence the conclusion drawn in the practical part of his phi 


UASIS OF FICHTE'S SYSTEM. 


693 


losophy, that the true destination of man is not thought, but 
action, which is thought realized. “ I am free,” he says. That 
is the revelation of consciousness. “ I am free; and it is not 
merely my action, but the free determination of my will to obey 
the voice of conscience, that decides all my worth. More bright¬ 
ly does the everlasting world now rise before me; and the fun¬ 
damental laws of its order are more clearly revealed to my men¬ 
tal sight. My will alone , lying hid in the obscure depths of my 
soul, is the first link in a chain of consequences stretching 
through the invisible realms of spirit, as in this terrestrial world 
the action itself, a certain movement ccynmunicated to matter, is 
the first link in a material chain of cause and effect, encircling 
the whole system. The will is the efficient cause, the living 
principle of the world of spirit, as motion is of the world ot 
sense. I stand between two worlds, the one visible, in which the 
act alone avails, and the intention matters not at all; the other 
invisible and incomprehensible, acted on only by the will. In 
both these worlds I am an effective force. The Divine life, as 
alone the finite mind can conceive it, is self-forming, self-repre¬ 
senting will, clothed, to the mortal eye, with multitudinous sen¬ 
suous forms, flowing through me and through the whole im¬ 
measurable universe, here streaming through my veins and 
muscles,—there, pouring its abundance into the tree, the flower, 
the grass. The dead, heavy mass of inert matter, which did but 
fill up nature, has disappeared, and, in its stead, there rushes by 
the bright, everlasting flood of life and power, from its Infinite 
Source. 

“ The Eternal Will is the Creator of the world, as he is the 
Creator of the finite reason. Those who will insist that the 
world must have been created out of a mass of inert matter, 
which must always remain inert and lifeless, like a vessel made 
by human hands, know neither the world nor Him. The In¬ 
finite Reason alone exists in himself—the finite in him ; in our 
minds alone has lie created a world, or at least that by and 
through which it becomes unfolded to us. In his light we be- 


694 


FICIITE. 


hold the light, and all that it reveals. Great, living Will'. 
whom no words can name, and no conception embrace ! well 
may I lift my thoughts to thee, for I can think only in thee. In 
thee, the Incomprehensible, does my own existence, and that of 
the world, become comprehensible to me; all the problems of 
being are solved, and the most perfect harmony reigns. I veil 
my face before thee and lay my finger on my lips.” 

§ IV. Fichte’s Idealism. 

The ground-principle of Fichte’s idealism having been given, 
we have now to see how )ie avoids the natural objections which 
rise against such a doctrine. But first let us notice how this 
deification of personality was at once the most natural product 
of such a mind as Fichte’s, and the best adapted to the spirit of 
the age which produced it. His doctrine was an inspiration of 
that ardent and exalted spirit which stirred the heart of Ger¬ 
many, and made the campaign of 1813 an epoch in history. 
Germany then, as now, was most.deficient in energetic will. It 
had armies, and these armies were headed by experienced gener¬ 
als. But among them there was scarcely another beyond the 
impetuous Bliieher, who had steadfast will. They were beaten 
and beaten. At length they were roused. A series of insults 
had roused them. They rose to fight for fatherland ; and in 
their ranks was Fichte, who by deed as well as doctrine sought 
to convince them that in Will lay man’s divinity. 

The question being, What is the relation of Object and Sub¬ 
ject? and Fichte’s solution being Object and Subject are identi¬ 
cal, it followed from his position that inasmuch as an Object and 
a Subject—a Non-Ego and an Ego—were given in knowledge, 
and the distinction between them by all men supposed to be 
real, the origin of this distinction must arise in one of two ways : 
either the Ego must posit the Non-Ego, wilfully and consciously 
(in which case mankind would never suppose the distinction to 
be a real distinction); or else the Ego must cause the Non-Ego 
to be, and must do so necessarily and unconsciously. 


fichte’s idealism. 


695 


How does Fichte solve the problem ? He assumes that the 
existence of the very Ego itself is determined * by the Non-Ego ; 
and in this way : To be, and to be conscious, are the same. The 
existence of the Ego depends upon its consciousness. But to be 
conscious of Self is at the same time to be conscious of Not-Self; 
the correlates Self and Not-Self are given in the same act of con¬ 
sciousness. But how is it that we attribute reality to Not-Self? 
Just as we attribute reality to Self, namely, by an act of Con¬ 
sciousness. Not-Self is given in Consciousness as a reality , and 
therefore we cannot suppose it to be a phantom. 

We may pause here to remark how all the witticisms against 
Idealism fall to the ground. The wits assume that when it is 
said the World is produced by the Ego, this World must'be held 
as a phantom. Now nobody ever believed that external objects 
had no reality ; the only possible doubt is as to whether they 
have any reality independent of mind. 

In consciousness we have a twofold fact, namely, the fact of 
Sell, and the fact of Not-Self, indissolubly given in one. We 
conclude therefore that Consciousness—that the Ego—is partly 
self-determined, and partly determined by not-self. Let us sup¬ 
pose the entire reality of the Ego (that is, in its identity of Sub¬ 
ject and Object) represented by the number ten. The Ego, 
conscious of five of its parts—or, to speak with Fichte —positing 
five, does by that very act posit five parts negatively in itself. 
But how is it that the Ego can posit a negation in itself! It 
does so by the very act of Consciousness; in the act of sepa¬ 
rating five from ten, the five remaining are left passive. The 
negation is therefore the passivity of the Ego. This seems to 
lead to the contradiction that the Eiro, which was defined as an 
Activity, is at the same time active and passive. The solution 

* The German word bestimmen, which we are forced to translate “to de¬ 
termine,” is of immense use to the metaphysicians ; we would gladly have 
substituted some other equivalent, could we have found one to represent 
the meaning better. To determine, in philosophy, does not mean (as in or¬ 
dinary language), to resolve, but to render definite. Chaos, when deter- 
•nined , is the created world. 



696 


FICHTE. 


of this difficulty is that it is Activity which determines Passivity 
and reciprocally. Let us suppose the absolute reality as a 
Sphere ; this is entirely in the Ego, and has a certain quantity. 
Every quantity less than this totality, will, of necessity, be nega¬ 
tion, passivity. In order that a less quantity should be com¬ 
pared with the totality and so opposed to it, it is necessary there 
should be some relation between them ; and this is in the idea 
of divisibility. In the absolute totality, as such, there are no 
parts ; but this totality may be compared with parts and distin¬ 
guished from it. Passivity is therefore a determinate quantity 
of Activity, a quantity compared with the totality. In regard to 
the Ego as absolute, the Ego as limited is passive ; in the rela¬ 
tion of Ego as limited to the Non-Ego, the Ego is active and the 
Non-Ego passive. And thus are activity and passivity recipro¬ 
cally determined. 

The result of this and much more reasoning, is the hypothesis 
that when mankind attribute to objects a real existence they are 
correct; but they are incorrect in supposing that the Object is 
independent of the Subject: it is identical with the Subject. The 
common-sense belief is therefore correct enough. It is when we 
would rise above this belief, and endeavor to philosophize, that 
we fall into error. All the philosophers have erred, not in as¬ 
suming the reality of objects, but in assuming the reality of two 
distinct, disparate existences, Matter and Mind; whereas we have 
seen that there is only one existence, having the twofold aspect 
of Object and Subject. 

Nor is the distinction unimportant. If Dualism be accepted, 
we have no refuge from Skepticism. If we are to believe that 
Dinge an sick exist—that Matter exists independently of Mind, 
exists per se —then are we doomed to admit only a knowledge of 
phenomona as possible. The things in themselves we can never 
know ; we can only know their effects upon us. Our knowledge 
is relative, and never can embrace the absolute truth. 

But if Idealism be accepted, the ordinary belief of men is not 
only respected but confirmed ; for this belief is that we do know 


ficiite’s idealism. 


697 

things in themselves, and that the things we know do exist. The 
Dualist forces you to admit that you cannot know things in 
themselves ; and that your belief in their existence is merely the 
postulate of your Reason, and is not immediately given in the 
facts of Consciousness. r Ihe Idealist, on the contrary, gives you 
an immediate knowledge of things in themselves, consequently 
opens to you the domain of absolute Truth. He only differs 
from you in saying that these things, which you immediately 
know, are part and parcel of yourself; and it is because you and 
they are indissolubly united, that immediate knowledge is pos¬ 
sible. 

“ But,” says Realism, “ I know that objects are altogether in¬ 
dependent of me. I did not create them. I found them there, 
out of me. The proof of this is that if, after looking at a tree, I 
turn away, or shut my eyes, the image of the tree is annihilated, 
but the tree itself remains.” 

“ No,” answers Idealism, “ the tree itself does not remain : for 
the tree is but a phenomenon, or collection of phenomena ;—the 
tree is a Perception, and all perceptions are subjective. You 
suppose that every one must admit that our perceptions are dif¬ 
ferent from their objects. But are they different ? that is pre¬ 
cisely the question at issue; and you assume it. Let us be 
cautious. What is an object—a tree for instance ? Tell me, 
what does your Consciousness inform you of? Let me hear 
the fact, the whole fact, and no inference from the fact. Is not 
the object (tree) one and the same as your 'perception (tree) ? Is 
not the tree a mere name for your perception ? Does not your 
Consciousness distinctly tell you that the Form, Color, Solidity, 
and Smell of the Tree are in you —are affections of your Sub¬ 
ject ?” 

“I admit that,” replies Realism; “but although these are in 
me , they are caused by something out of me. Consciousness tells 
me that very plainly.” 

“Does it so? I tell you that Consciousness has no such 
power. It can tell you of its own changes; it cannot trans* 


69S 


FICHTE. 


cend itself to tell you any thing about that which causes its 
changes.” 

“ But I am irresistibly compelled to believe,” says Realism, 
“ that there are things which exist out of me ; and this belief, be¬ 
cause irresistible, is true.” 

“ Stop! you run on too fast,” replies Idealism ; “ your belief is 
not what you describe it. You are not irresistibly compelled to 
believe that things exist, which said things lie underneath all 
their appearances, and must ever remain unknown. This is no 
instinctive belief; it is a philosophic inference. Your belief 
simply is, that certain things, colored, odorous, extended, sapid, 
and solid, exist; and so they do. But you infer that they exist 
out of you? Rash inference. Have you not admitted that 
color, odor, taste, extension, etc., are but modifications of your 
sentient being; and if they exist in you, how can they exist out 
of you? They do not: they seem to do so by a law of the 
mind which gives objectivity to our sensations.”* 

“Try your utmost to conceive an object as any thing more 
than a synthesis of perceptions. You cannot. You may infer, 
indeed, that a substratum for all phenomena exists, although un¬ 
known, unknowable. But on what is your inference grounded ? 
On the impossibility of conceiving the existence of qualities— 
extension, color, etc.—apart from some substance of which they 
are qualities. This impossibility is a figment. The qualities 
have no need of an objective substratum, because they have a 
subjective substratum : they are the modifications of a sensitive 
subject; and the synthesis of these modifications is the only sub¬ 
stratum of which they stand in need. This may be proved in 
another way. The qualities of objects, it is universally admitted, 
are but modifications of the subject: these qualities are attrib¬ 
uted to external objects; they are dependent upon the subject 


* The difference between Berkeley and Fichte is apparent here. The 
former said that the objects did exist independent of the Ego, but did not 
exist independent of the universal Mind. Fichte’s Idealism was Egoism; 
Berkeley’s was a theological Idealism. 



APPLICATION OF FICIITe’s IDEALISM. 


690 


for their existence; and yet, to account for their existence, it is 
asserted that some unknown external somethin^: must exist as a 
substance in which they must inhere. Now, it is apparent that, 
inasmuch as these qualities are subjective and dependent upon 
the subject for their existence, there can be no necessity for an 
object in which they must inhere.” Thus may Idealism defend 
itself against Realism. 

We have made ourselves the advocates of Fichte’s principles, 
but the reader will not mistake us for disciples of Fichte. In 
the exposition of his system we have, for obvious reasons, gen¬ 
erally avoided his own manner, which is too abstract to be 
followed without difficulty, and we have endeavored to state his 
ideas in our own way. To exhibit Fichte’s Idealism is, strictly 
speaking,all that our plan imposes on us; but although his phil¬ 
osophical doctrines are all founded upon it, and although it was 
the doctrine which made an epoch in German Philosophy, con¬ 
sequently the doctrine which entitles him to a place in this His¬ 
tory, nevertheless we should be doing him injustice and mislead¬ 
ing our readers, if we did not give some glimpse of his moral 
system. The Idealism, as Idealism, seems little better than an 
ingenious paradox: only when we see it applied can we regard 
it as serious.* 


§ V. Application of Fichte’s Idealism. 

The Ego is essentially an Activity; consequently free. But 
this free activity would lose itself in infinity, and would remain 
without consciousness—in fact, without existence—did it not 


* Those who are curious to see what he himself makes of his system, are 
referred to his Wissenschaftslehre (of which a French translation by M. Paul 
Grimblot exists, under the title of Doctrine de la Science ), or, as a more pop¬ 
ular exposition, to his Bestimmung des Menschen , a French translation of which 
has been published by M. Barchou de Penhoen, under the title Destination 
de VHomme, which, from the character and learning of the translator, is, we 
have no doubt, an excellent version. An English translation has also been 
made by Mrs. Percy Sinnett, which can be recommended. Fichte’s work, 
The Nature of the Scholar , has also recently appeared, by Mr. W. Smith, 
who has also translated the Characteristics of the Present Age. 




roo 


FICHTE. 


encounter some resistance. In the effort to vanquish this resist¬ 
ance, it exerts its will, becomes conscious of something not itself, 
and thereby becomes conscious of itself. But resistance limits 
freedom, and as an Activity the Ego is essentially free—it is 
irresistibly impelled to enjoy perfect freedom. This expansive 
force, which impels the Ego to realize itself by complete develop¬ 
ment, and thereby assimilating the Non-Ego—this force, in as 
far as it is not realized, is the aim of man’s existence—it is his duty. 

Here a difference from the ordinary schools of morality begins 
to show itself. Duty is not a moral obligation which we are free to 
acknowledge or reject; it is a pulse beating in the very heart of 
man—a power inseparable from his constitution ; and according 
to its fulfilment is the man complete. 

The world does not exist because we imagine it, but because 
we believe it. Let all reality be swept away by skepticism—we 
are not affected. Man is impelled by his very nature to realize 
his existence by his acts. Our destination is not thought, but 
action. Man is not born to brood over his thoughts, but to man¬ 
ifest them—to give them existence. There is a moral world 
within ; our mission is to transport it without. By this we cre¬ 
ate the world. For what is the condition of existence ?—what 
determines Thought to be? Simply that it should realize itself 
as an object. The Ego as simple Subject does not exist; it has 
only a potentiality of existence. To exist, it must realize itself 
and become Subject-Object. 

Mark the consequence: Knowing that we carry within us the 
moral world, and that upon ourselves alone depends the attain¬ 
ment of so sublime an object as the manifestation of this world, 
it is to ourselves alone that we must direct our attention. This 
realization of the world, what is it but the complete development 
of ourselves? If we would be, therefore—if we would enjoy the 
realities of existence, we must develop ourselves in the attempt 
to incessantly realize the beautiful, the useful, and the good. 
Man is commanded to be moral by the imperious necessity of 
his own nature. To be virtuous is not to obev some external 


APPLICATION OF FICHTE^ IDEALISM. 


701 


*aw but to fulfil au internal law: this obedience is not slavery, 
but freedom ; it is not sacrificing one particle of freedom to any 
other power, but wholly and truly realizing the power within us 
of being: free. 

o 

Life is a combat. The free spirit of man, inasmuch as it is 
finite, is limited, imperfect; but it incessantly struggles to subju¬ 
gate that which opposes it—it tends incessantly towards infin¬ 
ity. Defeated in his hopes, he is sometimes discouraged, but 
this lasts not long. There is a well-spring of energy forever 
vital in the heart of man; an ideal is forever shining before 
him, and that he must attain. 

Man knows himself to be free; knows also that his fellow- 
men are free; and therefore the duty of each is to treat the 
others as beings who have the same aim as himself. Individual 
liberty is therefore the principle of all government: from it 
Fichte deduces his political system. 

And what says Fichte respecting God ? He was, as we know, 
accused of atheism. Let us hear his real opinions. In his an¬ 
swer to that charge we have an abstruse, but at the same time 
positive, exposition of his views.* God created the world out of 
au inert mass of matter; and from the evidence of design in this 
created world we infer an intelligent designer. This is the com- 
mon view; but Fichte could not accept it. In the first place, 
what we call the World is but the incarnation of our Duty 
(unsere Welt ist das versinnlichte Material unserer PJlicht). It 
is the objective existence of the Ego: we are, so to speak, the 
creators of it. Such a statement loolcs very like atheism, espe¬ 
cially when Fichte's system is not clearly apprehended: it is, 
however, at the worst, only Acosmism. 

Nor could Fichte accept the evidence of Design, because De¬ 
sign is a mere conclusion of the understanding, applicable only 
to finite, transient things, wholly inapplicable to the infinite: 
Design itself is but a subjective notion.f 

* QerichtlUhe Vera ntuortu r gsscTi r if ten gegen die Anklage dts Atheismus. 

■f Ibid., p. 43. 



FICHTE. 



“God,” says Fichte, “must be believed in, not inferred. Faith 
is the ground of all conviction, scientific or moral. Why do 
vou believe in the existence of the world ? it is nothing more 
than the incarnation of that which vou carry within vou, vet 
you believe in it. In the same way God exists in your Con¬ 
sciousness, and you believe in him. He is the Moral Order 
(moralische Ordnung) of the world : as such we can know him, 
and only as such. For if we attempt to attribute to him Intel¬ 
ligence or Personality, we at once necessarily fall into anthropo¬ 
morphism. God is infinite: therefore beyond the reach of our 
science , which can only embrace the finite, but not beyond our 
faith”* 

By our efforts to fulfil our Duty, and thus to realize the Good 
and Beautiful, we are tending towards God, we live in some meas¬ 
ure the life of God. True religion is therefore the realization 
of universal reason. If we were all perfectly free, we should be 
one; for there is but one Liberty, If we had all the same con¬ 
victions, the law of each would be the law of all, since all would 
have but one Will. To this we aspire; to this Humanity is 
tending. 

The germ of mysticism which lies in this doctrine was fully 
developed by some of Fichte’s successors, although he himself 
had particularly guarded against such an interpretation, and dis¬ 
tinguishes himself from the mvstics. 

Let us now pass to Fichte’s Philosophy of History. 

The historian only accomplishes half of the required task. 
He narrates the events of an epoch, in their order of occurrence, 
and in the form of their occurrence; but he cannot be assured 
that he has not omitted some of these events, or that he has 
given them their due position and significance. The philosopher 
must complete this incomplete method. He must form some 
idea of the epoch—an Idea a priori , independent of experience. 
He must then exhibit this Idea alwavs dominant throughout the 

y O 


* SittcnUhre , pp. 1S9, 194. 



APPLICATION OF FICIITE’s IDEALISM. 703 

epoch—and manifesting itself in all the multiplicity of facts, 
which are but its incarnation. What is the world but an incar¬ 
nation ot the Ego ? W hat is an epoch but an incarnation of an 
Idea ? 

Every epoch has therefore its pre-existent Idea. And this 
Idea will be determined by the Ideas of the epochs which have 
preceded it; and will determine those which succeed it. Hence 
we conclude that the evolutions of Ideas—or the History of the 

orld—is accomplished on a certain plan. The philosopher 
must conceive this plan in its totality, that he may from it 
deduce the Ideas of the principal epochs in the history of Hu¬ 
manity, not only as past, but as future. 

The question first to be settled is this: What is the ground- 
plan of the world? or, in other words, according to Fichte, 
What is the fundamental Idea which Humanity has to realize ? 

The answer is: The Idea of Duty. This, in its concrete ex- 
pression, is: To fix the relations of man to man in such order 
that the perfect liberty of each be compatible with the liberty of 
the whole. 

History may thus be divided into two principal epochs. The 
one, in which man has not established the social relations on the 
basis of reason. The other, in which he has established them, 
and knows that he has done so. 

That Humanity exists but for the successive and constant 
realization of the dictates of reason is easily proved. But some¬ 
times Humanity has knowledge of what it performs, and why it 
performs it; sometimes it obeys but a blind impulse. In this 
second case, that is to say, in the first epochs of the terrestrial 
existence of Humanity, Reason, although not manifesting itself 
distinctly, consciously, nevertheless exists. It manifests itself as 
an instinct, and appears under the form of a natural law; it 
manifests itself in the intelligence only as a vague and obscure 
sentiment. Reason, on the contrary, no sooner manifests itself 
as Reason, than it is gifted with consciousness of itself and its 
acts. This constitutes the second epoch. 


704 


FICHTE. 


But Humanity does not pass at once from the first to the 
second epoch. At first Reason only manifests itself in a few 
men, the Great Men of their age, who thereby acquire authority. 
They are the instructors of their age; their mission is to elevate 
the mass up to themselves. Thus Instinct diminishes, and Rea¬ 
son supervenes. Science appears. Morality becomes a science. 
The relations of man to man become more and more fixed in 
accordance with the dictates of reason. 

The entire life of Humanity has five periods. I. The domina¬ 
tion of Instinct over Reason: this is the primitive age. II. The 
general Instinct gives place to an external dominant Authority : 
this is the age of doctrines unable to convince, and employing 
force to produce a blind belief, claiming unlimited obedience: 
this is the period in which Evil arises. III. The Authority, 
dominant in the preceding epoch, but constantly attacked by 
Reason, becomes weak and wavering: this is the epoch of skep¬ 
ticism and licentiousness. IV. Reason becomes conscious of it¬ 
self; truth makes itself known; the science of Reason develops 
itself: this is the beginning of that perfection which Humanity 
is destined to attain. V. The science of Reason is applied; 
Humanity fashions itself after the ideal standard of Reason: 
this is the epoch of Art, the last term in the history of our 
species. 

This brief outline of Fichte’s system will be sufficient to assign 
him his place in the long line of European thinkers who have 
worked, with such perseverance, the glittering mine of Meta¬ 
physics ; and sufficient also, we trust, not only to stimulate the 
curiosity of such readers whose studies lie in that direction, but 
also to furnish them with a general view capable of rendering 
the details intelligible. 


705 


LIFE OF SCHELLINO. 


CHAPTER II. 

SCHELLIJSTG. 

§ I. Life of Sciielling. 

Frederick William Joseph Sciielling was born in Leon- 
berg, in Wurtemberg, 27th of January, 1775. At the Uni¬ 
versity in Tubingen he first knew Hegel, and their friendship 
was enduring and productive. At Leipzig he studied Medicine 
and Philosophy; in the latter he became the pupil of Fichte. 
He afterwards filled Fichte’s vacant chair at Jena, where he 
lectured with immense success. In 1807 he was made a mem¬ 
ber of the Munich Academy of Sciences. And in Bavaria, 
honored, rewarded, and ennobled, he remained till 1842, when 
the King of Prussia seduced him to Berlin; and there, in the 
chair once held by Hegel, he opened a series of lectures, in 
which he was to give the fruit of a life’s meditation. 

His appearance at Berlin was the signal for violent polemics. 
The Hegelians were all up in arms. Pamphlets, full of person¬ 
alities and dialectics, were launched against Schelling, apparent¬ 
ly without much effect. His foes at length grew weary of 
screaming; and he continued quietly to lecture. In 1845, the 
writer of this work had the gratification not only of hearing 
him lecture on Mythology to large audiences, but also of hearing 
him in the expansiveness of private conversation pour forth his 
stores of varied knowledge. His intellectual vigor was such, 
that although seventy summers had whitened his hair, he seemed 
to have still a long lease of life; and indeed he continued nine 
years longer to inspire the respect of all who knew him. He 
died on the 20th August, 1854. 


706 


PC HELLING. 


§ II. Schelling’s Doctrines. 

Schelling is often styled the German Plato. In such parallels 
there is always some truth amidst much error. Schelling’s works 
unquestionably exhibit great power of vivid imagination con¬ 
joined with subtle dialectics; if on this ground he is to be styled 
a Plato, then are there hundreds to share that title with him. 
Ilis doctrines have little resemblance to those of his supposed 
prototype. Curiously enough, his head w r as marvellously like 
that of Socrates; not so ugly, but still very like it in general 
character. 

Schelling may be regarded as having been the systematizer of 
a tendency, always manifesting itself, but then in full vigor in 
Germany—the tendency towards Pantheism. This tendency is 
not merely the offspring of Mysticism. It may be recognized in 
the clear Goethe, no less than in the mystical Novalis. In some 
way or other, Pantheism seems the natural issue of almost every 
Philosophy of Religion, when rigorously carried out; but Ger¬ 
many, above all European countries, has, both in poetry and 
speculation, the most constantly reproduced it. Her poets, her 
artists, her musicians, and her thinkers, have been more or less 
Pantheists. Schelling’s attempt, therefore, to give Pantheism a 
scientific basis, could not but meet with hearty approbation. 

We may here once more notice the similarity, in historical 
position, of the modern German speculations to those of the 
Alexandrian Schools. In both, the incapacity of Reason to 
solve the problems of Philosophy is openly proclaimed ; in both, 
some higher faculty is called in to solve them. Plotinus called 
this faculty Ecstasy. Schelling called it the Intellectual In- 
tuition. The Ecstasy was not supposed to be a faculty possessed 
by all men, and at all times; it was only possessed by the few, 
and by them but sometimes. The Intellectual Intuition was not 
supposed to be a faculty common to all men ; on the contrary, it 
was held as the endowment only of a few of the privileged: it 
was the faculty for philosophizing. Schelling expresses his dis- 


sciielling’s doctrines. 


707 


dain for those who talk about not comprehending the highest 
truths of Philosophy. “Really,” he exclaims, “one sees not 
wherefore Philosophy should pay auy attention whatever to In¬ 
capacity. It is better rather that we should isolate Philosophy 
from all the ordinary routes, and keep it so separated from ordi¬ 
nary knowledge, that none of these routes should lead to i*. 
Philosophy commences where ordinary knowledge terminates.”* 
The highest truths of science cannot be proved, they must be 
apprehended; for those who cannot apprehend them there is 
nothing hut pity; argument is useless. 

After this, were we to call Schelling the German Plotinus, we 
should perhaps be nearer the truth than in calling him the Ger¬ 
man Plato. But it was for the sake of no such idle parallel 
that we compared the fundamental positions of each. Our ob¬ 
ject was to “ point a moral,” and to show how the same forms 
of error reappear in history, and how the labors of so many 
centuries have not advanced the human mind in this direction 
one single step. 

The first point to be established is the nature of Schelling’s 
improvement upon Fichte : the relation in which the two doc¬ 
trines stand to each other. 

Fichte’s Idealism was purely subjective Idealism. The Object 
had indeed reality, but was solely dependent upon the Subject. 
Endeator as we might, we could never separate the Object from 
the Subject, we could never conceive a possible mode of exist¬ 
ence without being forced to identify with it a Subject. Indeed 
the very conception itself is but an act of the Subject. Admit¬ 
ting that we are forced by the laws of our mental constitution to 
postulate an unknown something, a Noumenon, as the substance 
in which all phenomena inhere, what, after all, is this postulate? 
It is an act of the Mind ; it is wholly subjective ; the necessity 
for the postulate is a mental necessity. The Non-Ego therefore 
•js the product of the Ego. 

* Neue ZeiUchrift.fur Speculative Physik , ii. 84. 

48 





708 


SCHELLING. 


There is subtle reasoning in the above ; nay more, it contain? 
a principle tvhich is irrefutable : the principle of the identity of 
Object and Subject in knowledge.* This Schelling adopted. 
Nevertheless, in spite of such an admission, the nullity of the ex¬ 
ternal world was too violent and repulsive a conclusion to be 
long maintained; and it was necessary to see if the principle of 
identity might not be preserved, without forcing such a con¬ 
clusion. 

The existence of the objective world is as firmly believed in as 
the existence of the subjective : they are, indeed, both given in 
the same act. We cannot be conscious of our own existence 
without at the same time inseparably connecting it with some 
other existence from which we distinguished ourselves. So in 
like manner we cannot be aware of the existence of any thing 
2>ut of ourselves without at the same time inseparably connecting 
with it a consciousness of ourselves. Hence we conclude that 
both exist; not indeed separately, not independently of each 
other, but identified in some higher power. Fichte said that the 
Non-Ego was created ‘by the Ego. Schelling said that the two 
were equally real, and that both were identified in the Absolute. 

Knowledge must be knowledge of something. Hence Knowl¬ 
edge implies the correlate of Being. Knowledge without an 
Object known, is but an empty form. But Knowledge and Be¬ 
ing are correlates; they are not separable ; they are identified. 
It is as impossible to conceive an Object knowm without a Sub¬ 
ject knowing, as it is to conceive a Subject knowing without an 
Object known. 

Nature is Spirit visible; Spirit is invisible Nature :f the abso¬ 
lute Ideal is at the same time the absolute Real. 


*This is the stronghold of Idealism, and^we consider it impregnable, so 
tong as men reason on the implied assamption, that whatever is true in 
wuman knowledge is equally true (i. e. actually so co-ordinated) in fact, 
that as things appear to us so they are per se. And yet without this assump¬ 
tion Philosophy is impossible. 

<fr .Our readers will recognize here a favorite saying of -Coleridge, many 



SCHELLING'S DOCTRINES. 


709 


Hence Philosophy has two primary problems to solve. In 
the Transcendental Philosophy the problem is to construct Na¬ 
ture from Intelligence—the Object from the Subject. In the 
Philosophy of Nature the problem is to construct Intelligence 
from Nature—the Subject from the Object.* * And how are we 
to construct one from the other ? Fichte has taught us to do so 

O 

by the principle of the identity of Subject and Object, whereby 
the productivity and the product are in constant opposition, yet 
always one. The productivity ( TliatigJceit ) is the activity in act; 
it is the force which develops itself into all thing?:. The pro¬ 
duct is the activity arrested and solidified into a fact; but it is 
always ready to pass again into activity. And thus the world 
is but a balancing of contending powers within the sphere of the 
Absolute. 

In what, then, does Schelling differ from Fichte, since both 
assert that the product (Object) is but the arrested activity of 
the Ego ? In this : the Ego in Fichte’s system is a finite Ego— 
it is the human soul. The Ego in Schelling’s system is the Ab¬ 
solute—the Infinite—the All, which Spinoza called Substance ; 
and this Absolute manifests itself in two forms : in the form of 
the Ego and in the form of the Non-Ego—as Nature and as 
Mind. 

The Ego produces the Non-Ego, but not by its own force, not 
out of its own nature ; it is the universal Nature which works 
within us and which produces from out of us; it is universal 
Nature which here in us is conscious of itself. The souls of men 
are but the innumerable individual eyes with which the Infinite 
World-Spirit beholds himself. 

What is the Ego ? It is one and the same with the act which 
renders it an Object to itself. When I say “ myself”—when I 
form a conception of my Ego, what is that but the Ego making 


of whose remarks, now become famous, are almost verbatim from Schelling 
and the two Schlegels. 

* System des Transcendentalen Idealismus , p. 7 



710 


SCHELLING. 


itself an Object ? Consciousness therefore may be defined the 
objectivity of the Ego. Very well; now apply this to the Abso¬ 
lute. He, too, must be conscious of himself, and for that he 
must realize himself objectively. We can now understand 
Schelling when he says, “ The blind and unconscious products 
of Nature are nothing but unsuccessful attempts of Nature to 
make itself an Object ( sick selbst zu reflectiren ); the so-called 
dead Nature is but an unripe Intelligence. The acme of its 
efforts—that is, for Nature completely to objectize itself—is at¬ 
tained through the highest and ultimate degree of reflection in 
Man—or what we call Reason. Here Nature returns into itself, 
and reveals its identity with that which in us is known as the 
Object and Subject.”* 

The function of Reason is elsewhere more distinctly described 
as the total indifference-point of the subjective and objective. 
The Absolute he represents by the symbol of the magnet. Thus, 
as it is the same principle which divides itself in the magnet into 
the north and south poles, the centre of which is the indifference- 
point, so in like manner does the Absolute divide itself into the 
Real and Ideal, and holds itself in this separation as absolute in¬ 
difference.! And as in the magnet every point is itself a magnet, 
having a North pole, a South pole, and a point of indifference, 
so also in the Universe, the individual varieties are but varieties 
of the eternal One. Man is a microcosm. 

Reason is the indifference-point. Whoso rises to it, rises to 
the reality of things (zum wahren Ansich), which reality is pre¬ 
cisely in the indifference of Object and Subject. The basis of 
Philosophy is therefore the basis of Reason ; its knowledge is a 
knowledge of things as they are , i. e. as they are in Reason.]; 

The spirit of Plotinus revives in these expressions. We have 
in them the whole key-stone of the Alexandrian School. The 


* System des Transcendentalen Idealis7nus, p. 5. 

t Hence Schelling’s philosophy is often styled the Indifference Phi 
tosophy. 

t Zeitschri/t fur Speculative PhysiTc , vol. ii. heft 2. 



schelling’s doctrines. 


711 


Intellectual Intuition by which we are to embrace the Absolute, 
is, as before remarked, but another form of the Alexandrian 
Ecstasy. Schelling was well aware that the Absolute, the In¬ 
finite as such, could no.t be known under the conditions of finitv. 
cannot be known in personal consciousness. How, then, can it 
be known ? By some higher faculty which discerns the identity 
of Object and Subject—which perceives the Absolute as Abso¬ 
lute, where all difference is lost in indifference. 

There are three divisions in Schelling’s system : the philosophy 
of Nature, the transcendental philosophy, and the philosophy of 
the Absolute. 

His speculations with respect to Xature have met with consid¬ 
erable applause in Germany. Ingenious they certainlv are, but 
vitiated in Method; incapable of verification. Those who are 
curious to see what he makes of Nature are referred to his Zeit- 
schriftfur speculative Physik , and his Ideenzu einer Philosophic 
der jVatur. The following examples will serve to indicate the 
character of his speculations.* 

Subject and Object being identical, the absolute Identity is the 
absolute totality named Universe. There can be no difference 
except a quantitative difference; and this is only conceivable 
with respect to individual existences. For the absolute Identity 
is quantitative indifference both of Object and Subject, and is 
only under this form. If we could behold all that is, and behold 
it in its totality, we should see a perfect quantitative equality. It 
is only in the scission of the Individual from the Infinite that 
quantitative difference takes place. This difference of Object and 
Subject is the ground of all finity; and, on the other hand, quan¬ 
titative indifference of the two is Infinity. 

That which determines any difference is a Bower ( Potenz ), 
and the Absolute is the Identity of all Powers {alter Potenzen). 

* The reader must not complain if he do not understand what follows : 
intelligibility is not the characteristic of German speculation; and we are 
here only translating Schelling’s words, without undertaking to enlighten 
their darkness. 



712 


SCIIELLING. 


All matter is originally liquid; weight is the power through 
which the Attractive and Expansive force, as the immanent 
ground of the reality of Matter, operates. Weight is the first 
Potenz. The second Potenz is Light—an inward intuition of 
Nature, as weight is the outward intuition. Identity with Light 
is Transparency. Heat does not pertain to the nature of Light, 
but is simply a modus existendi of Light. Newton’s speculations 
upon Light are treated with disdain, as a system built upon il¬ 
logical conclusions, a system self-contradictory, and leading to 
infinite absurdities. Nevertheless this absurd system has led 



cing science; while the views of Schelling lead to nothing ex¬ 
cept disputation. So with his explanation of Electricity: let us 
suppose it exact, and we must still acknowledge it to be useless. 
It admits of no verification ; admits of no application. It is ut¬ 
terly sterile. 

There are, indeed, general ideas in his Natur-philosophie , 
which not only approach the conceptions of positive science, but 
have given a powerful stimulus to many scientific intellects. The 
general law of polarity, for example, which he makes* the law of 
universal nature, is seen illustrated in physics and chemistry; al¬ 
though the presumed relation between heat and oxygen, which 
he makes the basis of all atomic changes, no chemist will nowa¬ 
days accept. When, in the second part of this treatise, he the¬ 
orizes on organic life, the result is similar—namely, some general 
ideas which seem luminous are enforced by particular ideas cer¬ 
tainly false. He maintains that vegetation and life are the prod¬ 
ucts of chemical action: the first consisting in a continual deox¬ 
idation, the second in a continual oxidation; as soon as this 
chemical action ceases, death supervenes, for living beings exist 
only in the moment of becoming.\ He only expresses the uni¬ 
versally accepted idea of life when he makes it depend on the 
ncessant disturbance and re-establishment of an equilibrium,J or, 


* Von der Wcltseele , p. 25, sq. 


+ Ibid p. 181. X Ibid., p. 2S4. 



sciielling’s doctrines. 713 

as De Blainville defines it, “ a continual movement of decompo¬ 
sition and recomposition.” 

All tlie functions of Life are but the individualizations of one 
common principle; and all the series of living beings are but 
the individualizations of one common Life : this is the Weltseele , 
or anima mundi. The same idea had been expressed by Goethe, 
and has since been presented, under various forms, by Oken and 
many German naturalists. The idea of a dynamic progression 
in Nature, is also the fundamental idea in Hegel’s philosophy. 

Schelling, in his Jahrbiicher der Medicin , says that Science is 
only valuable in as far as it is speculative ; and by speculation 
he means the contemplation of God as lie exists. Reason, inas¬ 
much as it affirms God, cannot affirm any thing else, and anni¬ 
hilates itself at the same time as an individual existence, as any 
thing out of God. Thought (das DenJccn ) is not my Thought; 
and Being is not my Being; for every thing belongs to God or 
the All. There is no such thing as a Reason which we have ; 
but only a Reason that has us. If nothing exists out of God, 
then must the knowledge of God be only the infinite knowledge 
which God has of himself in the eternal Self-affirmation. God 
is not the highest, but the only One. He is not to be viewed as 
the summit or the end, but as the centre, as the All in All. 
Consequently there is no such thing as a being lifted up to the 
knowledge of God ; but the knowledge is immediate recognition. 

If we divest Schelling’s speculations of their dialectical forms, 
we shall arrive at the following results: 

Idealism is one-sided. Beside the Subject there must exist an 
Object: the two are identical in a third, which is the Absolute. 
This Absolute is neither Ideal nor Real—neither Mind nor Na¬ 
ture—but both. This Absolute is God. He is the All in All; 
the eternal source of all existence. He realizes himself under 
one form, as an objectivity; and under a second form as a sub¬ 
jectivity. He becomes conscious of himself in man: and this 
man, under the highest form of his existence, manifests Reason, 
and by this Reason God knows himself. Such are the conclu 


m 


SCHELLING. 


sions to winch Schelling’s philosophy leads us. And now, we 
ask, in what does this philosophy differ from Spinozism ? 

The Absolute, which Schelling assumes as the indifference- 
point of Subject and Object, is but the tfpo jtov dya&ov and primal 
Nothing, which forms the first Hypostasis of the Alexandrian 
Trinity. The Absolute, as the Identity of Subject and Object, 
being neither and yet both, is but the Substance of Spinoza, 
whose attributes are Extension and Thought. 

With Spinoza also he agreed in giving only a phenomenal re¬ 
ality to the Object and Subject. With Spinoza he agreed in 
admitting but one existence—the Absolute. 

But, although agreeing with Spinoza in his fundamental posi¬ 
tions, he differed with him in Method, and in the applications of 
those positions. In both differences the superiority, as it seems 
to me, is incontestably due to Spinoza. 

Spinoza deduced his system very logically from one funda¬ 
mental assumption, viz. that whatever was true of ideas was 
true of objects. This assumption itself was not altogether ar¬ 
bitrary. It was grounded upon the principle of certitude, which 
Descartes had brought forward as the only principle which was 
irrefragable. Whatever was found to be distinct and a priori in 
Consciousness, was irresistibly true. Philosophy was therefore 
deductive; and Spinoza deduced his system from the principles 
laid down by Descartes. 

Schelling’s Method was very different. Aware that human 
knowledge was necessarily finite, he could not accept Spinoza’s 
Method, because that would have given him only a knowledge 
of the finite, the conditioned; and such knowledge, it was ad¬ 
mitted, led to skepticism. He was forced to assume another 
faculty of knowing the truth, and this was the Intellectual Intu¬ 
ition. Reason which could know the Absolute, was only possible 
by transcending Consciousness and sinking into the Absolute. 
As Knowledge and Being were Identical, to know the Infinite, 
we must be the Infinite, i. e. must lose our individuality in the 
jniversal. 


LIFE OF HEGEL. 


715 


Consciousness, then, which had for so long formed the basis 
of all Philosophy, was thrown over by Sclielling, as incompetent 
to solve any of its problems. Consciousness was no ground ot 
certitude. Reason was the organ of Philosophy, and Reason was 
impersonal. The Identity of Being and Knowing took the 
place of Consciousness, and became the basis of all speculation. 
We shall see to what it led in Hegel. 

Our notice of Schelling has necessarily been brief, not because 
he merited no greater space, but because to have entered into 
details with any satisfaction, would have carried us far beyond 
our limits. His works are not only numerous, but differ consid¬ 
erably in their views. All w r e have endeavored to represent is 
the ideas which he produced as developments of Fichte, and 
which served Ilegel as a basis.* 


CHAPTER III. 

HEGEL. 

§ I. Life of Hegel. 

George Frederick William Hegel was born at Stuttgard, 
the 27th of August, 1770. He received that classical education 
which distinguished the Wirtembergian students beyond all 
others; and in his eighteenth year he went to Tubingen, to pur¬ 
sue his theological and philosophical studies. He was there a 
fellow-student with Schelling, for whom he contracted great es¬ 
teem. The two young thinkers communicated to each other 
their thoughts, and discussed their favorite systems. In after- 


* A French translation of Sclielling’s most important work, under the 
title of Systime de VIdealisme transcendental, by P. Grimblot, the translator 
of Fichte, has appeared; also a version of Bruno ; ou , Les Principea det 
Choscs. 




HEGEL. 


716 

life, when opposition had sundered these ties, Hegel never spoke 
of this part of their connection -without emotion. In his twen¬ 
tieth year he had to give up all his plans for a professorship, and 
was content (hunger impelling) to accept the place of a private 
tutor, first in Switzerland, and subsequently in Frankfort. 

Early in 1801 his father died; and the small property he in¬ 
herited enabled him to relinquish his tutorship, and to move to 
Jena, where he published his dissertation De Orbitis Planetarum. 
This work was directed against the Newtonian system of Astron¬ 
omy. It was an application of Schelling’s Philosophy of Na¬ 
ture ; and in it Newton was treated with that scorr* which Hegel 
never failed to heap upon Empirics, i. e. those who trusted more 
to experience than to logic. In the same year he published his 
Difference between Fichte and Schelling , in which he sided with 
the doctrines of his friend, whom he joined in editing the Crit¬ 
ical Journal of Philosophy. It is in the second volume of this 
Journal that we meet with his celebrated essay Glauben und 
Wissen (Faith and Knowledge), in which Kant, Jacobi, and 
Fichte are criticised. 

At Jena he enjoyed the society of Goethe and Schiller. The 
former, with his usual sagacity, detected the philosophical genius 
which as yet lay undeveloped in Hegel; of which more may be 
read in Goethe and Schiller’s Correspondence. Hegel, on the 
other hand, was to the last one of Goethe’s stanchest admirers; 
and many a gleam of lustre is shed over the pages of the phi¬ 
losopher by the frequent quotations of the poet. 

At the University of Jena, Hegel then held the post of Privat- 
docent ; but his lectures had only four listeners. These four, how¬ 
ever, were all remarkable men: Gabler, Troxler, Lachmann, and 
Zellmann. On Schelling’s quitting Jena, Hegel filled his chair ; 
but filled it only for one year. Here he published his Phanome- 
nologie des Geistes. He finished writing this work on the night 
of the ever-memorable battle of Jena. While the artillery was 
roaring under the walls, the philosopher was deep in his work, 
unconscious of all that was going on. He continued writing, as 


iiegel’s method. 


TIT 


Archimedes at the siege of Syracuse continued his scientific re¬ 
searches. The next morning, manuscript in hand, he steps into 
the streets, proceeding to his publisher’s, firmly convinced that 
the interests of mankind are bound up with that mass of writing 
which he hugs so tenderly. The course of his reverie is some¬ 
what violently interrupted; bearded and gesticulating French 
soldiers arrest the philosopher, and significantly enough inform 
him that, for the present, the interests of men lie elsewhere than 
in manuscripts. In spite of French soldiers, however, the work 
in due time saw the light, and was welcomed by the pnilosophical 
world as a new svstem—or rather as a new modification of Schel- 

J 

ling’s system. The editorship of the Bamberg newspaper was 
then offered him, and he quitted Jena. He did not long remain 
at Bamberg; for in the autumn of 1808 we find him Rector of 
the Gymnasium College at Nurnberg. He shortly after married 
Friiulein von Tucher, with whom he passed a happy life, and 
who bore him two sons. In 1816 he was called to the chair 
of Heidelberg, and published in 1817 his Encyclopadie der Philos. 
Wissenschaften , which contains an outline of his system. This 
work so exalted his reputation that in 1818 he was called to the 
chair of Berlin, then the most important in Germany. He 
there lectured for thirteen years, and formed a school, of which it 
is sufficient to name its members Gans, Rosenkranz, Michelet, 
Werder, Marheinecke, and Ilotho. 

Heofel was seized with cholera in 1831, and after a short ill- 
ness expired, in the sixty-second year of his age, on the 24th of 
November, the anniversary of the death of Leibnitz. 

§ II. Hegel’s Method. 

Schelling’s doctrines were never systematically co-ordinated. 
He was subtle, ardent, and audacious; but he disregarded pre¬ 
cision ; and stood in striking contradiction to his predecessors, 
Kant and Fichte, in the absence of logical forms. 

The effect of his teaching was felt more in the department of 
the philosophy of nature than elsewhere. Crowds of disciples, 


ns 


HEGEL. 


some of them, as Oken and Steffens, illustrious disciples, attempt¬ 
ed the application of his principles ; and after a vast quantity of 
ingenious but sterile generalization, it was found that these prin¬ 
ciples led to no satisfactory conclusion. 

Schelling’s ideas were, however, very generally accepted in the 
philosophical world at the time Hegel appeared. These ideas 
were thought to be genuine intuitions of the truth ; the only draw¬ 
back was their want of systematic co-ordination. They were 
inspirations of the truth ; and demonstrations were needed. The 
position Hegel was to occupy became therefore very clear. 
Either he must destroy those ideas and bring forward others ; or 
he must accept them, and, in accepting, systematize them. This 
latter was no easy task, and this was the task he chose. In the 
course of his labors he deviated somewhat from Schelling, because 
the rigorous conclusions of his logic made such deviations neces¬ 
sary ; but these are, after all, nothing but modifications of Schel¬ 
ling’s ideas; very often nothing but different expressions for the 
same ideas. 

What then constitutes Hegel’s glory ? What is the nature of 
his contribution to philosophy, and what has placed him on so high 
a pedestal of renown ? It is nothing less than the invention of 
a new Method.* 

The invention of a method has always been considered the 
greatest effort of philosophical genius, and the most deserving of 
the historian’s attention. A method is a path of transit. "Who¬ 
so discovers a path whereon mankind may travel in quest of truth, 
has done more towards the discovery of truth than thousands of 
men merely speculating. What had the observation and specu¬ 
lation of centuries done for astronomy before the right path was 
found ? And if a method could be found for philosophv—if a 
path of transit from the phenomenal to the noumenal world could 
be found—should we not then be quickly in possession of the truth ? 


* This is the claim put up by his disciple, Michelet, Gesch. der Systems der 
Philos, ii. 004-5 ; who declares Hegel’s method to be all that can properly be 
called his own. Comp. Hegel’s Vermischte Schri/ten, ii. 479. 



hegel’s method. 


719 


A Method is all-important. The one invented by Descartes 
seemed promising; but it led to Malebranche and Spinoza. The 
one invented by Locke had obvious excellences; but it was a 
path of transit to Berkeley and Hume. That of Kant led to 
Fichte and Skepticism. 

Curious to consider! In the modern as in the ancient world, 
the inevitable results of a philosophical Method are Idealism and 
Skepticism. One class of minds is led to Idealism or Mysticism ; 
another class is led to Skepticism. But as both these conclusions 
are repugnant to the ordinary conclusions of mankind, they are 
rejected, and the Method which led to them is also rejected. A 
new one is found ; hopes beat high ; truth is about to be discov¬ 
ered ; the search is active, and the result—always the same—re¬ 
pugnant Idealism or Skepticism. Thus struggling and baffled, 
hoping and dispirited, has Humanity forever renewed the con¬ 
flict, without once gaining a victory. Sisyphus rolls up the 
heavy stone, which no sooner reaches a certain point than down 
it rolls to the bottom, and all the labor is to begin again. 

We have already traced the efforts of many noble minds; we 
have seen the stone laboriously rolled upwards, and seen it swift¬ 
ly roll down again. We have seen Methods discovered; we have 
followed adventurous spirits as they rushed forward to conquest; 
and seen the discouragement, the despair which possessed them, 
as they found their paths leading only to a yawning gulf of 
Skepticism, or a baseless cloud-land of Idealism. We have now 
to witness this spectacle once more. We have to see whither 
Hegel’s Method can conduct us. 

And what is this Method which Hegel discovered ? Accepting 
as indisputable the identity of Object and Subject, he was forced 
also to accept the position, that whatever was true of the thought 
was true of the thing. In other words, Mind and Matter being 
identical, Ideas and Objects were correlates, and equally true. 
This was the position upon which Descartes stood; the position 
upon which Spinoza stood. Schelling and Hegel arrived at this 
position by a different route, but they also took their stand upon it. 


720 


HEorEL. 


Now, it is evident that such a position is exposed to attacks on 
all sides; to none more so than the contradictions which rise up 
from within it. If whatever is true of Ideas is true also of Objects, 
a thousand absurdities bristle up. Thus, as Kant said, there is 
considerable difference between thinking we possess a hundred 
dollars, and possessing them. Hegel’s answer is delicious: he 
declares that “ Philosophy does not concern itself with such 
things as a hundred dollars !” ( daran ist philosophisch nichts zu 
erkennen.) Philosophy directs its thoughts only towards' that 
which is necessary and eternal. 

Very well: let such miserable illustrations as that of dollars 
be banished from discourse; let us concern ourselves only with 
what is necessary and eternal; let us confine ourselves to abstrac¬ 
tions. Are there no contradictions here between Thoughts and 
Realities ? For example, we have the Thought of Non-existence : 
does therefore this Non-existence which is our Thought also 
possess an objective being ? Is there a’ Non-existence ? 

We have chosen this idle question, because Hegel himself has 
forced us to it. He boldly says, that the Non-existence—the 
Nothing— exists , because it is a Thought (das Nichts ist; denn 
es istein Gedanke). It is not, however, merely a Thought, but 
it is the same Thought as that of a pure Being ( Seyn ), viz. an 
entirely unconditioned Thought. 

In this, coupled with his famous axiom, that “ Being and Non- 
Being are the same” (Segn und Nichts ist dasselbe ), we have 
two of the curious results to which his Method led him. It was 
the Method of Descartes, founded upon Descartes’ principle of 
the truth of ideas being equivalent to the truth of things ; but 
inasmuch as this met with strong opposition from various sides, 
Hegel resolved to give it a deeper, firmer basis, a basis that went 
underneath these contradictions. The basis was his principle of 
the identity of contraries. 

Two contraries are commonly supposed to exclude each other 
reciprocally: Existence excludes Non-Existence. This notion 
Hegel pronounces to be false. Every thing is contradictory in 


hegel’s method. 


721 


itself: contradiction forms its essence: its identity consists in 
being tlie union of two contraries. Thus Being ( Sei/n ) consid¬ 
ered absolutely—considered as unconditioned—that is to say, as 
Being in the abstract, apart from any individual thing, is the 
same as Nothing. Existence is therefore identical with its nega¬ 
tion. But to conclude that there is not Existence, would be 
false ; for the abstract Nothing ( Nichts ) is at the same time the 
abstract Being. We must therefore unite these two contraries, 
and in so doing we arrive at a middle term—the realization* of 
the two in one, and this is conditioned Existence—it is the world. 

Here is another example. In pure light—that is, light without 
color or shadow—we should be totally unable to see any thing. 
Absolute clearness is therefore identical with absolute obscurity— 
with its negation, in fact; but neither clearness nor obscurity 
are complete alone : by uniting them we have clearness mingled 
with obscurity; that is to say, we have Light properly so called. 

Hegel thus seized the bull by the horns. Instead of allowing 
himself to be worsted by the arguments derived from the con¬ 
tradictions to which the identity of Existence and Knowledge 
was exposed, he at once met the difficulty by declaring that the 
identity of contraries was the very condition of all existence; 
without a contrary nothing could come into being. This was 
logical audacity which astounded his countrymen, and they have 
proclaimed this feat worthy of immortal glory. A new light 
seemed to be thrown upon the world: a new aspect was given 
to all existences. Being was at the same time Non-Being; Sub¬ 
ject was at the same time Object; and Object was Subject: 
Force was at the same time Impotence; Light was also Dark¬ 
ness, and Darkness was also Light. 

“Nothing in this world is single; 

All things, by a law divine, 

In one another’s being mingle.” 

The merit of this discovery, whatever may be its value, is 


* The original word is warden —the becoming\ It is much used in German 
speculation to express the transition from Non-being to Being. 




722 


HEGEL. 


considerably diminished when we remember how distinctly it 
was enunciated in ancient Greece. Heraclitus had told us how 
“All is, and is not; for though it comes into being, yet it forth¬ 
with ceases to be.” Empedocles had told us how there w r as 
“ Nothing but a mingling and then a separation of the mingled.” 
Indeed the constant flux and reflux of life, the many changes, 
and the compound nature of all things, must early have led 
men to such a view. Hegel himself admits that all the posi¬ 
tions maintained by Heraclitus have been by him developed 
in his Logic. What then was wanting to Heraclitus—what 
is the great merit of Hegel ? A perception of the logical 
law of the identity of contraries. To this Hegel has the sole 
claim. 

Here, then, is the foundation-stone of Hegel’s system. He 
adopts the principle of the identity of Subject and Object. This 
principle being pronounced false, because it leads to manifest 
contradictions, Hegel replies that the principle is true; and that 
it must lead to contradictions, because the identity of contraries 
is the condition of all existence. 

Such is the Method which admiring disciples extol as the 
greatest effort of Philosophy, as the crown of all previous spec¬ 
ulations ; and even in France it has been in some quarters ac¬ 
cepted as a revelation. 

The law being given, we may now give the process. Let us 
take any one Idea (and with Hegel an Idea is a reality, an Ob¬ 
ject, not simply a modification of the Subject); this Idea, by its 
inherent activity, tends to develop that which is within it. This 
development operates a division of the Idea into two parts—a 
positive and a negative. Instead of one Idea we have therefore 
two, which reciprocally exclude each other. The Idea, therefore, 
by the very act of development, only conduces to its own nega¬ 
tion. But the process does not stop there. The negation itselt 
must be negatived. By this negation of its negation, the Idea 
returns to its primitive force. But it is no longer the same. It 
has developed all that it contained. It has absorbed its contrary 


ABSOLUTE IDEALISM. 


723 


Thus the negation of the negation, by suppressing the negation, 
at the same time preserves it.* 

We may, by way of anticipation, observe that Hegel’s notion of 
God becoming conscious of Himself in Philosophy, and thereby at¬ 
taining His highest development, is founded on the above process. 
God as pure Being can only pass into reality through a nega¬ 
tion ; in Philosophy He negatives this negation , and thus becomes 
a positive affirmation. 

§ III. Absolute Idealism. 

We have seen Hegel’s Method. Whether that be a path of 
transit to the domain of truth, or only to the cloud-land of mys¬ 
ticism and the bogs of absurdity, our readers will very soon 
decide. Meanwhile we must further detail Hegel’s opinions; we 
must see whither his Method did lead him. 

As every thing contains within itself a contradiction, and as 
the identity of the two constitutes its essence, so we may say 
that Schelling’s conception of the identity of Subject and Ob¬ 
ject was not altogether exact. He assumed the reality of both 
of these poles of the magnet; and the identity he called the 
point of indifference between them. These two extremities were 
always separate, though identified. Hegel declared that the 
essence of all relation—that which is true and positive in every 
relation—is not the two terms related , but the relation itself. 
This is the basis of Absolute Idealism. 

It may be thus illustrated. I see a tree. Psychologists tell 
me that there are three things implied in this one fact of vision, 
viz. a tree, an image of that tree, and a mind which apprehends 
that imasre. Fichte tells me that it is I alone who exist: the 

O 

tree and the image of the tree are but one thing, and that is a 
modification of my mind. This is Subjective Idealism. Schel- 
ling tells me that both the tree and my Ego are existences 

* This play upon words is assisted by the German avfheben , which means 
‘to suppress” as well as “to preserve.” See Ott, Hegel et la Philos. Alle 
mande , p. 80. 


49 



724 nEGEL. 

equally real or ideal, but they are nothing less than manifesta¬ 
tions of the Absolute. This is Objective Idealism. But, accord¬ 
ing to Hegel, all these explanations are false. The only thing 
really existing (in this one fact of vision) is the Idea—the rela¬ 
tion. The Ego and the Tree are but two terms of the relation, 
and owe their reality to it. This is Absolute Idealism. 

Of the three forms of Idealism, this is surely the most pre¬ 
posterous ; and that any sane man—not to speak of a man so 
eminent as Hegel—should for an instant believe in the correct- 
ness of the logic which “ brought him to this pass”—that he 
should not at once reject the premises frcm which such conclu¬ 
sions followed—must ever remain a wonder to all sober thinkers 
—must ever remain a striking illustration of the unbounded con- 
fidence in bad logic which distinguishes metaphysicians— 

“ Gens ratione ferox, et mentem pasta chimaeris.” 

Truly, a race mad with logic, and feeding the mind with chi 
meras. 

What does this Absolute Idealism bring us to? It brings us 
to a world of mere “ relations.” The Spinozistic notion of “ Sub¬ 
stance” was too gross. To speak of Substance, was to speak only 
of one term of a relation. The Universe is but the Universe ot 
Ideas, which are at once both Objective and Subjective, their es¬ 
sence consisting in the relation they bear to each other, in the 
identity of their contradiction. 

Remark, also, that this Absolute Idealism is nothing but 
Hume’s Skepticism, in a dogmatical form. Hume denied the 
existence of Mind and Matter, and said there was nothing but 
Ideas. Hegel denies the existence of both Object and Subject, 
and sa\s there is nothing but the “relations” of the two. He 
blames Kant for having spoken of Things as if they were only 
appearances to us (Erscheinungen fur uns ) while their real na¬ 
ture (Ansicli) was inaccessible. The real relation, he says, is 
this: that the Things we know are not only appearances to us, 
but are in themselves mere appearances ( sondern an sick blosse 
Erscheinungen). The real Objectivity is this; that our Thoughts 


ABSOLUTE IDEALISM. 


725 


are not only Thoughts, but at the same time are the reality of 
Things.* 

This is the Philosophy—not a Philosophy, remember—not a 
system which may take its place amongst other systems. No, 
it is the Philosophy par excellence. We have Hegel’s word for 
it ;f we have the confirmation of that word by many ardent dis¬ 
ciples. True it is, that some of the young Hegelians, when re¬ 
proached with the constant changes they introduce, reply that it 
belongs to the nature of Philosophy to change. But these are 
inconsiderate, rash young men. Mature and sober thinkers (of 
Hegel’s school) declare that, although some improvements are 
possible in detail, yet on the whole Hegel has given the Philos¬ 
ophy to the world. 

And this philosophy is not a system of doctrines whereby man 
is to guide himself. It is something far greater. It is the con¬ 
templation of the self-development of the Absolute. Hegel con¬ 
gratulates mankind upon the fact of a new epoch having dawned. 
“ It appears,” says he, “that the World-Spirit ( Weltgeisi !) has at 
last succeeded in freeing himself from all encumbrances, and is 
able to conceive himself as Absolute Intelligence (sick als abso- 

luten Geist zu erfassen ) .For he is this only in as 

fiir as he knows himself to be the Absolute Intelligence: and 
this he knows only in Science ; and this knowledge alone consti¬ 
tutes his true existence .”J 

Such pretensions would be laughable, were they not so painful 
to contemplate. To think not only of one man, and that one 
remarkable for the subtlety of his intellect, a subtlety which was 
its bane, together with many other men—some hundred or so, 
all rising above the ordinary level of ability—one and all cul¬ 
tivating, as the occupation of their lives, a science with such 
pretensions, and with such a Method as that of the identity of 

* “ Dass die Gedanken niclit bloss unsere Gedanken, sondern zugleich das 
Ansich der Dinge und des Gegenstiindlichen iiberhaupt sind P—Encyclopadie, 
p. 89 ; see also p. 97. The whole of this Introduction to the Encyclopadie is 

worth consulting. 

+ Gesch. der Philos, iii. 690. + Ibid. iii. 689. 



726 


HEGEL. 


contraries! The delusions daily to be seen are those of igno¬ 
rance, and only depend upon ignorance. But the delusions of 
Metaphysics are the delusions of an ambitious intelligence 'which 
“o’erleaps itself.” Men such as Fichte, Schelling, and Hegel, 
for example, belong incontestably to a high order of intelligences; 
yet we have seen to what their reasonings brought them; we 
have seen what absurdities they could accept, believing they had 
found the truth. Hegel especially impresses you with a sense of 
his wonderful power. His works we have always found very 
suggestive; his ideas, if repugnant to what we regard as the 
truth, are yet so coherent, so systematically developed, so obvi¬ 
ously coming from matured meditation, that we have always 
risen from the perusal with a sense of the author’s greatness. 
We allude especially to his Lectures on ^Esthetics , his History 
of Philosophy , his Philosophy of History , and his Philosophy 
of Religion. 

As for the system itself, we may leave to all readers to decide 
whether it be worthy of any attention, except as an illustration of 
the devious errors of speculation. A system which begins with 
assuming that Being and Non-Being are the same, because Being 
in the abstract must be conceived as the Unconditioned, and so 
must Non-Being, therefore both,as unconditioned, are the same; 
a system -which proceeds upon the identity of contraries as the 
method of Philosophy; a system in which Thought is the same as 
the Thing, and the Thing is the same as the Thought; a system 
in which the only real positive existence is that of simple Relation, 
the two terms of which are Mind and Matter ;—this system, were it 
wholly true, leaves all the questions for which science is useful as 
a light, just as much in the dark as ever, and is therefore unwor¬ 
thy the attention of earnest men working for the benefit of 
mankind. 

Not only is it useless ; it is worse, it is pernicious. The facility 
with which men can throw all questions into the systematic ob¬ 
scurity of metaphysics, has long been the bane of German Liter¬ 
ature and Thought. In England and France -we have been 


hegel’s logic. 


727 


saved from perpetuating the frivolous discussions of the School 
men, mainly because we have retained their nomenclature and 
terminology, and are warned by these from off scholastic ground ; 
but the Germans, having invented a new philosophical language, 
do not perceive that the new terms disguise old errors; they fail 
to recognize in Irrlicht the familiar face of Ignis fatuus. 

§ IY. Hegel’s Logic. 

Philosophy being the contemplation of the self-development of 
the Absolute, or, as Hegel sometimes calls it, the representation 
of the Idea ( Darstellung der Idee ), it first must be settled in what 
directions this development takes place. 

The process is this. Every thing must be first considered 
ptr se (an sick) ; next in its negation, or some other thing (An- 
derseyn). These are the two terms—the contraries; but they 
must be identified in some third, or they cannot exist: this third 
is the Relation of the two (the Anundfursichseijn) . This is the 
affirmation which is founded on the negation of a negation : it is 
therefore positive, real. 

The Absolute, which is both Thought and Being, must be con¬ 
sidered in this triple order, and philosophy falls into three parts: 

I. Logic, the science of the Idee* an und fur sick. 

II. Nature-philosophy, as the science of the Idee in its An - 
derseyn. 

III. Philosophy of Intelligence, as the Idee which has re¬ 
turned from its Anderseyn to itself. 

Logic, in this system, has a very different meaning from that 
usually given to the word. It is, indeed, equally, with the com¬ 
mon logic, an examination of the forms of Thought; but it is 
more :—it is an examination of Things, no less than of Thoughts. 
As Object and Subject are declared identical, and whatever is 
true of the Thought 4 is equally true of the Thing, since the 

* The Idee is but another term for the Absolute. We shall use it, rather than 
Idea, because the English word cannot be employed without creating un¬ 
necessary confusion. 




728 


HEGEL. 


Thought is the thing, Logic, of course, takes the place of the 
ancient Logic, and, at the same time, of Metaphysics. It is the 
generation of all abstract ideas. Consequently it contains the 
whole system of Science; and the other parts are but the appli¬ 
cation of this Logic. 

Hegel’s Logic is contained in three stout volumes of dry hard 
scholasticism. It is a representation of the Idee, in its process 
of pure thought, free from all contact with objects. It is wholly 
abstract. It begins with pure Being. This pure Being, in vir¬ 
tue of its purity, is unconditioned ; but that which has no condi¬ 
tions has no existence : it is a pure abstraction. Now a pure ab¬ 
straction is also the Nothing (das Nichts ) : it also has no condi¬ 
tions ; its unconditionalness makes its nothingness. The first 
proposition in Logic is, therefore, “ Being and Non-Being are the 
same.” 

Hegel admits the proposition to be somewhat paradoxical, and 
is fully aware of its openness to ridicule; but he is not a man 
to be scared by a paradox, to be shaken by a sarcasm. He is 
aware that stupid common-sense will ask, “ whether it is the 
same if my house, my property, the air I breathe, this town, sun 
the law, mind, or God, exist or not.” Certainly, a very pertinent 
question: how does he answer it ? “ In such examples,” he 

sa} s, “ particular ends—utility, for instance—are understood, and 
then it is asked if it is indifferent to me whether these useful 
things exist or not? But, in truth, Philosophy is precisely tho 
doctrine which is to free man from innumerable finite aims and 
ends, and to make him so indifferent to them that it is really all 
the same whether such things exist or not.” Here we trace the 
Alexandrian influence; except that Plotinus would never have had 
the audacity to say that Philosophy was to make us indifferent 
whether God existed or not; and it must have been a slip of the 
pen which made Hegel include God in the examples: a slip of 
the pen, or else the “rigor of his pitiless logic,” of which his dis¬ 
ciples talk. “ Pitiless” indeed !—more intrepid absurdity it 
would be difficult to find. 


iiegel’s logic. 


729 


Remark, also, the evasive nature of his reply. Common-seme 
suggests to him a plain direct question, not without interest. This 
question, plain as it is, goes to the bottom of his system. He 
evades it by answering, that Philosophy has nothing to do with 
the interests of men. Very true ; his system has nothing to do 
with them. But the question put was not, “ Has Philosophy to 
concern itself with the* interests of mankind ?” The question put 
was, “ If, as you say, Being and Non-Being are the same, is it the 
same thing to have a house and not to have it?” Hegel might 
have given a better answer even upon his own principles. 

To return, however. The first proposition has given us the two 
contraries ; there must be an identity—a relation—to give them 
positive reality. As pure Being, and as pure Non-Being, they have 
no reality ; they are mere potentialities. Unite them, and you 
have the Becoming ( Werden), and that is reality. Analyze this 
idea of Becoming, and you will find that it contains precisely 
these two elements,—a Non-Being from which it is evolving, 
and a Being which is evolved. 

Now these two elements, which reciprocally contradict each 
other, which incessantly tend to absorb each other, are only 
maintained in their reality by means of the relation in which they 
are to each other;—that is, the point of the magnet which keeps 
the poles asunder, and by keeping them asunder prevents their 
annihilating each other. The Becoming is the first concrete 
Thought we can have, the first conception; Being and Non-Be¬ 
ing are pure abstractions. 

A question naturally suggests itself as to how Being and Non- 
Being pass from Abstractions into Realities. The only answer 
Hegel gives us is, that they become Realities : but this is answering 
us with the very question itself. We want to know how they be¬ 
come. In themselves, as pure Abstractions, they have no reality ; 
and although two negatives make an affirmative in language, it 
is not so evident how they can accomplish this in tact. The 
question is of course insoluble; and those Hegelians whom we 
questioned on the point, unanimously declared it to be one of 


HEGEL. 


130 

those truths (very numerous in their system) which can be com¬ 
prehended, but not proved. 

Let us grant the Becoming. It is the identity of Being and 
Non-Being ; and as such it is Being as determined , conditioned. 
All determination ( Bestimmung ) is Negation.* Therefore, in 
order that Being should become, it must suffer first a negation ; 
the Ansicliseyn must also be Anderseyn , and the relation of the 
two is total reality, the Anundfursichseyn. 

Quality is the first negation: it is the reality of a thing. 
That which constitutes Quality is the negation which is the con¬ 
dition of its Being. Blue, for example, is blue only because it is 
the negation of red, green, purple, etc.; a meadow is a meadow 
only because it is not a vineyard, a park, a ploughed field, etc. 

Being, having suffered a Negation, is determined as Quality,— 
it is Something, and no longer an Abstraction. But this some¬ 
thing is limited by its very condition ; and this limit, this nega¬ 
tion, is external to it: hence Something implies Some-other-thing. 
There is a This and a That. Now the Something and the 
Some-other-thing, the This and the That , are the same thing. 
This is a tree ; That is a house. If I go to the house, it will 
then be the This , and the tree will be That. Let the tree 
be the Something, and the house the Some-other-thing, and the 
same change of terms may take place. This proves that the two 
are identical. The something carries its opposite (other-tiling) 
within itself; it is constantly becoming the other-tiling. Clearly 
showing that the only positive reality is the Relation which 
always subsists throughout the changes of the terms. 

This, it must be owned, looks like the insanity of Logic. It is 
not, how r ever, unexampled in Hegel’s works. In his Phanome- 
nologie des Geistes , he tells us that perception gives us the ideas 
of Now, Here, This, etc. And what is the Now ? At noon I say 
“ Now it is day.” Twelve hours afterwards I say, “ Now it is 
night.” My first affirmation is therefore false as to the second, 


* This, as many other ideas, is borrowed from Spinoza, in whose system it 
has real significance. In Ilegel’s it is a mere play upon words. 



hegel’s logic. 


731 


my second false as to the first: which proves that the Now is a 
general idea; and as such a real existence, independent of al 1 
particular Nows. 

Our readers are by this time probably quite weary of this friv¬ 
olous Logic ; we shall spare them any further details. If they 
wish further to learn about Quantities, Identities, Diversities, etc., 
they must consult the original. 

Those who are utter strangers to German speculation will 
wonder, perhaps, how it is possible for such verbal quibbles to 
be accepted as Philosophy. But, in the first place, Philosophy 
itself, in all its highest speculations, is but a more or less inge¬ 
nious playing upon words. From Thales to Hegel, verbal distinc¬ 
tions have always formed the ground of Philosophy, and-must 
ever do so as long as we are unable to penetrate the essence of 
things. In the second place, Hegel’s Logic is a work requiring 
prodigious effort of thought to understand: so difficult and am¬ 
biguous is the language, and so obscure the meaning. Now, 
when a man has once made this effort, and succeeded, he is very 
apt to overvalue the result of all that labor, and to believe what 
he has found, to be a genuine truth. Thirdly, Hegel is very 
consistent; consistent in audacity, in absurdity. If the student 
yields assent to the premises, he is sure to be dragged irresistibly 
to the conclusions. Fourthly, the reader must not suppose that 
the absurdities of Hegel’s system are so apparent in his works as 
in our exposition. We have exerted ourselves to the utmost to 
preserve the real significance of his speculations ; but we have 
also endeavored to bring them into the clear light of day. Any 
thing except a verbal translation would reveal some aspects of 
the absurdity, by the very fact of bringing it out of the obscurity 
with which the German terminology veils it. The mountain 
looming through a fog turns out to be a miserable hut as soon 
us the fog is scattered; and so the boasted system of Absolute 
Idealism turns out to be only a play upon words, as soon as it 
is dragged from out the misty terminology in which it is en* 
shrouded. 


732 


HEGEL. 


§ V. Application of the Method to Nature and History, 

Religion and Philosophy. 

Having exhibited the various evolutions of the Idee as pure 
Thought, Hegel undertakes to exhibit its objective evolutions in 
the domain of Nature. 

In the former attempt he had only to deal with abstractions ; 
and it was no such difficult matter to exhibit the “ genesis of 
ideas”—the dependence of one formula upon another. Verbal 
distinctions were sufficient there. But verbal distinctions, auda¬ 
cious logic, and obscure terminology avail nothing : n attacking 
the problems presented to us by Nature; and in endeavoring to 
give scientific solutions, Nature is not to be coerced. Aware of 
the difficulties—seeing instinctively that the varieties of Nature 
could not be reduced to the same simplicity as the varieties of 
the Idee —as Thought had been reduced in his Logic —Hegel as¬ 
serted that the determinations of the Idee in its exteriority could 
not follow the same march as the determinations of the Idee as 
Thought. Instead of generating each other reciprocally, as in 
the Logic, these determinations in Nature have no other connec¬ 
tion than that of coexistence ; sometimes indeed they appear 
isolated. 

When we look abroad upon Nature, we observe an endless 
variety of transformations. At first these seem without order ; 
on looking deeper, we find that there is a regular series of devel¬ 
opment from the lowest to the highest. These transformations 
are the struggles of the Idee to manifest itself objectively . Nature 
is a dumb Intelligence striving to articulate. At first she mumbles; 
with succeeding efforts she articulates ; at last she speaks. 

Every modification which the Idee undergoes in the sphere of 
pure Thought it endeavors to express in the sphere of Nature. 
And thus an object is elevated in the scale of creation in so far 
as it resumes within itself a greater number of qualities : inor¬ 
ganic matter is succeeded by organic, and amongst orgamzed 


application of hegel’s method. 


733 


beings there is a graduated scale from the plant up to man. In 
man the Idee assumes its highest grade. In Reason it becomes 
conscious of itself, and thereby attains real and positive existence 
—the highest point of development. Nature is divine in prin¬ 
ciple {an sick), but it is a mistake to suppose it divine as it exists. 
By the Pantheists Nature is made one with God, and God one 
with Nature. In truth, Nature is but the exteriority (Aeusser- 
lichkeit ) of God : it is the passage of the Idee through imperfec¬ 
tion {Abfall der Idee). Observe moreover that Nature is not 
only external in relation to the Idee , and to the subjective exist¬ 
ence of the Idee, namely Intelligence ; but exteriority constitutes 
the condition in virtue of which Nature is Nature ( sondern die 
AeusserlicliJceit macht die Bestimmunrj aus, in welcher sie ah 
Natur ist). 

The Philosophy of Nature is divided into three sections—• 
Mechanics, Physics, and Physiology. Into the details, we are 
happy to say, our plan forbids us to enter; or we should have 
many striking illustrations of the futility of that Method which 
pretends to construct the scheme of the world a priori. Experi¬ 
mental philosophers—Newton especially—are treated with con¬ 
sistent contempt. Hegel is not a timid speculator ; he recoils 
from no consequence ; he bows down to no name ; he is im¬ 
pressed by no fact, however great. That Newton’s speculations 
should be no better than drivel, and his 11 discoveries” no better 
than illusions, were natural consequences of Hegel’s fundamental 
theories. That all Europe had been steadily persevering in ap¬ 
plying Newton’s principles, and extending his discoveries,—that 
Science was making gigantic strides, hourly improving mans 
mastery over Nature, hourly improving the condition of man¬ 
kind,—this fact, however great it might appear to others, when 
coupled with the other fact, that upon the ontological Method 
no discoveries had yet been made, and none seemed likely to be 
made—appeared to Hegel as unworthy of a philosopher’s notice. 
The interests of mankind were vulgar considerations, for which 


IIEGEL. 


734 

there would always be abundant vulgar minds. The philosophei 
had other objects. 

The third and last part of Hegel’s system is the Philosophy of 
Intelligence. Therein the Idee returns from Nature to itself, and 
returns through a consciousness of itself. 

Subjectively the Idee first manifests itself as a Soul; it then 
returns upon itself, and becomes Consciousness; and finally ren¬ 
ders itself an Object to itself, and then it is Reason. 

Objectively the Idee manifests itself as Will, and realizes itself 
in History and in Law. 

The Subjective and Objective manifestations being thus 
marked out, we have now to see in what manner the identity of 
the two will manifest itself. The identity of the Objective and 
Subjective is the Idee as Intelligence, having consciousness of 
itself in individuals, and realizing itself as Art, as Religion, and 
as Philosophy. 

The “ Lectures on the Philosophy of History,”* edited by the 
late accomplished Professor Gans, is one of the pleasantest books 
on the subject we ever read. The following ideas will be suffi¬ 
cient to give an indication of its method. 

History is the development of the Idee objectively—the pro¬ 
cess by which it attains to a consciousness of itself by explaining 
itself, f The condition of Intelligence is to know itself; but it 
can know itself only after having passed through the three 
phases of the method, namely, affirmation, negation, and nega¬ 
tion of negation, as the return to consciousness endowed with 
reality. It is owing to these phases that the human race is per¬ 
fectible. 

States, Nations, and Individuals represent the determinate 
moments of this development. Each of these moments manifests 


* Werke, vol. ix. 

t History is a sort of Tlieodicea; the merit of originality, however, which 
Hegel claims ( Einleitung , p. 20), is cine to Vico, from whom he lias largely- 
borrowed ; Vico expressly calls his New Science a Civil Theology of Divine 
Providence. See La Science JVouvelle, livre i. ch. iv. 



APPLICATION OF HEGEL’s METHOD. 


735 


'tself in the constitution, in the manners, in the creeds, in the 
whole social state of any one nation. For this nation it is what 
we call the spirit of the age : it is the only possible truth, and 
by its light all things are seen. But with reference to the abso¬ 
lute Idee all these particular manifestations are nothing but 
moments of transition—instruments by w T hich the transition to 
another higher moment is prepared. Great men are the incar¬ 
nations of the spirit of the age. 

It is not every nation that constitutes itself into a state: to do 
that, it must pass from a family to a horde, from a horde to a 
tribe, and from a tribe to a state. This is the formal realization 
of'the Idee . 

But the Idee must have a theatre on which to develop itself. 
The Earth is that theatre ; and as it is the product of the Idee 
(according to the Naturphilosophie ), we have the curious pheno¬ 
menon of an actor playing upon a stage—that stage being him¬ 
self ! But the Earth, as the geographical basis of History, has 
three great divisions :—1. The mountainous regions. 2. The 
plains and valleys. 3. The coasts and mouths of rivers. The 
first represents the primitive condition of mankind; the second 
the more advanced condition, when society begins to be formed; 
the third, when, by means of river-communication, the activity 
of the human race is allowed free development in all directions, 
particularly of commerce. This is another of the ideas of Vico,* 
and is in contradiction to all history. 

The great moments of History are four. 1. In the East w r e 
have the predominance of substantiality; the Idee does not 
know its freedom. The rights of men are unknown because the 
East kuows only that one is free. This is the childhood of the 
World. 2. In Greece we have the predominance of Individu¬ 
ality. The Idee knows that it is free, but only under certain 
forms, that is to say, only some are free. Mind is still mixed 
with Matter, and finds its expression therein; this expression is 


* La Science Nouvelle , livre i. cli. ii. § 97. 




730 


HEGEL. 

Beauty. This is the youthhood of the World. 3. In Rome we 
have opposition.between the Objective and Subjective: the po¬ 
litical universality and individual freedom both developed, yet 
not united. This is the Manhood of the World. 4. In the Teu¬ 
tonic Nations we have the unity of the contradiction—the Idee 
knowing itself; and instead of supposing, like Greece and Rome, 
that some only are free, it knows that all men are free. This is 
the old-aye of the World ; but although the old-age of body is 
•weakness, the old-age of Mind is ripeness. The first form of 
government which we see in History is Despotism ; the second is 
Democracy and Aristocracy; the third is Monarchy.* 

On reading over this meagre analysis, the ingenious specula¬ 
tions of the original will scarcely be recognized. Such is the 
art with which Hegel clothes his ideas in the garb of Philosophy, 
that though aware that he is writing fiction, not history, and 
giving us perversions of notorious facts as the laws of historical 
development—telling us that the Spirit of the World manifests 
himself under such and such phases, when it is apparent to all 
that, granting the theory of this World-Spirit’s development, the 
phases were not such as Hegel declares them to have been;—al¬ 
though we are aware of all this, yet is the book so ingenious 
and amusing, that it seems almost unfair to reduce it to such a 
caput mortuum as our analysis. Nevertheless the principles of 
his philosophy of History are those we have given above. The 
application of those principles to the explication of the various 
events of History, is still more ingenious. 

Hegel’s Philosophy of Religion has in the last few years been 
the subject of bitter disputes. The schisms of the young Hege¬ 
lians—the doctrines of Strauss, Feuerbach, Bruno, Bauer, and 
others—being all deduced, or pretended to be deduced, from 
Hegel’s system, much angry discussion has taken place as to the 
real significance of that system. When doctors thus disagree, 
we shall not presume to decide. We will leave the matter to 


* Philosophic der Geschichte , p. 123. 



APPLICATION OF IIEGEl’s METHOD. 73 7 

theologians; and for the present only notice Hegel’s fundamental 
ideas. 

It is often a matter of wonder to see how Hegel’s Method is 
applied to all subjects, and how his theory of life can be brought 
to explain every product of life. This is doubtless a great logical 
merit; and it inspires disciples with boundless confidence. Few, 
however, we suspect, have approached the subject of Religion 
without some misgivings as to the applicability of the Method 
to explain it. Probably the triumph is great when the applica¬ 
bility is shown to be as perfect here as elsewhere. Of this our 
readers shall judge. 

Hegel, of course, accepts the Trinity; his w r hole system is 
Trinitarian. God the Father is the eternal Idee an und fur sick: 
that is to say, the Idee as an unconditioned Abstraction. God the 
Son, engendered by the Father, is the Idee as Andcrsseyn: that 
is to say, as a conditioned Reality. The separation lias taken 
place which, by means of a negation , gives the Abstraction real 
existence. God the Holy Ghost is the Identity of the two; the 
negation of the negation and perfect totality of existence. He is 
the Consciousness of himself as Spirit: this is the condition of 
his existence. 

God the Father was before the World, and created it. That 
is to say, he existed an sick , as the pure Idee , before he assumed 
any reality. He created the World, because it is the essence of 
his being to create ( es gehort zu seinein Seyn , JVesen, Schopfer 
zu seyn). Did he not create, then would his own existence be 
incomplete. 

The vulgar notion of theologians is that God created the world 
by an act; but Hegel says that the creation is not an act, but an 
eternal moment—not a thing done, but a thing perpetually doing ; 
God did not create the world, he is eternally creating it. Attached 
also to this vulgar notion, is another less precisely but more 
commonly entertained; namely, that God, having created the 
world by an act of his will, lets it develop itself with no inter¬ 
ference of his; as Goethe somewhere ridicules it, he “sits aloft 


738 


HEGEL. 


seeing the world go.” This was not the doctrine of St. Paul, 
whose pregnant words are, “ In Him we live, and move, and have 
our being.” We live in God, not out of him, not simply by him. 
And this is what Hegel means when he denies that the creation 
was a single act. Creation was, and is, and ever will be. Crea¬ 
tion is the reality of God: it is God passing into activity, but 
neither suspended nor exhausted in the act. 

This is all we can here give of his Philosophy of Religion ; 
were we to venture further, we should only get ourselves entan¬ 
gled in the thorny labyrinth of theological problems. Let us 
pass, therefore, to his History of Philosophy , which, according 
to him, is the history of the development of the Idee as intelli¬ 
gence. This development of thought is nothing more than the 
various transitions which constitute the moments of the absolute 
Method. All these moments are represented in history; so that 
the History of Pliilosop>hy is the reproduction of the Logic under 
the forms of intelligence. The succession of these moments 
gives to each period a particular philosophy; but these various 
philosophies are, in truth, only parts of the one philosophy. 
This looks like the Eclecticism of Victor Cousin; and indeed 
Cousin’s system is but an awkward imitation of Hegel: but the 
Frenchman has either misunderstood, or has modified, the views 
of his master. 

Historically speaking, there have been, according to Hegel, 
but two philosophies—that of Greece and that of Germany. The 
Greeks conceived Thought under the form of the Idee ; the mod¬ 
erns have conceived it under the form of Spirit. The Greeks 
of Alexandria arrived at unity; but their unity was only ideal, 
it existed objectively in thought. The subjective aspect was 
wanting: the totality knew itself not as subjective and objective. 
This is the triumph of modern philosophy. 

The moments have been briefly these:—1. With Thales and 
the Eleatics, the Idee was conceived as pure Being—the One. 

2. With Plato it was conceived as Universal, Essence, Thought. 

3. With Aristotle as Conception (Begrijf). 4. With the Stoics, 


APPLICATION OF HEGEL’s METHOD. 


739 


Epicureans, and Skeptics, as subjective Conception. 5. With 
the Alexandrians as the totality ot Thought. 6. With Descartes 
as the Self-Consciousness. 7. With Fichte as the Absolute, or 
Ego. 8. With Sclielling as the Identity of Subject and Object, 

We close liere our exposition of Hegel’s tenets; an exposition 
which we have been forced to give more in his ow r n words than 
vy e could have wished; but the plan we adopted with respect to 
Kant and Fichte would not have been so easy (we doubt if it be 
possible) with respect to Hegel, whose language must be learned, 
for the majority of his distinctions are only verbal. In Kant 
and Fichte the thoughts were to be grappled with ; in Hegel the 
form is every thing. 

W r e have only touched upon essential points. Those desirous 
of more intimate acquaintance with the system, are referred to 
the admirable edition of his complete works, published by his dis¬ 
ciples, in twelve volumes, octavo. If this voluminousness be some¬ 
what too alarming, we can recommend the abridgment by Franz 
and Hillert ( Hegel's Philosophie in wortlichen Auszugen , Berlin, 
1843), where the whole system is given in Hegel’s own words, and 
only his illustrations and minute details are omitted. Michelet’s 
work is useful mainly for its bibliography. He indicates the vari¬ 
ous directions taken by Hegel’s disciples. Chalybaus is popular, 
but touches only on a few points. Barcliou de Penlioen evidently 
knows Hegel only at second-hand, and is not to be trusted. Dr. 
Ott’s work is ill written, but is very useful as an introduction to 
the study of the works themselves, and has been very useful to 
us in our exposition. No work of Hegel’s has been translated 
into English;* and only his uEstlietik into French, and that is 
more an analysis, we believe, than a translation. The Philos- 
ophy of History has been translated into Italian. 

* Since this was written, a part of the Logic has appeared under this 
title: The Subjective Logic of Hegel , translated by LL. Sloman and J. Walton , 
1S55. To the list of works mentioned above should be added Wilm’s ad¬ 
mirable Hist, de la Philos. Allemande , by far the best work on the subject 
known to me. 


50 




TENTH EPOCH. 


PSYCHOLOGY SEEKING ITS BASIS IN PHYSIOLOGY 


CHAPTER I. 

CABAOTS. 

While Ontology was reasserting its claim in Germany, with 
such results as we have seen, Philosophy in England and France 
relinquished its lofty claims, and contented itself with the en¬ 
deavor to construct a Psychology. The writings of Reid, Stew¬ 
art; Brown, James Mill, and their disciples, valuable in many 
respects, are all deficient in Method, all without a firm basis. The 
attempt of Hartley and Darwin to connect Psychology with 
Physiology, we have seen was premature. It nevertheless point¬ 
ed out the true direction. If Psychology is to be studied as a 
Science, it must be studied according to rigorously scientific prin¬ 
ciples ; if, on the contrary, it is to be studied as a branch of 
Metaphysics, then indeed the Scotch school, and every other 
unscientific school, may justly complain of the encroachment of 
Physiology on their domain. 

The history of the rise of psychological Method remains to be 
written. It began with Hobbes and Locke. They opposed the 
reigning doctrine of innate ideas. They analyzed Thought as 
the product of Experience. Hobbes, as was natural in the first 
vehemence of the swing of reaction against spiritualism, recog¬ 
nizes nothing in the mind but sensations in all their varieties; 



CABANIS. 


r 


741 


the mind, lie said, is moved by external motion, that is all. 
Locke, on deeper meditation, saw that there was something more 
than this ; he saw, dimly it is true, yet never overlooking it alto¬ 
gether, that the mind co-operated. Not only Sense, but Reflection 
on the materials given through Sense, furnished, he said, the 
complex thoughts of man. Thus he proclaimed Experience the 
source of knowledge. The mind of the child was like a sheet of 
blank paper, on which Experience wrote its various records. In 
Locke, we see the initial steps of the Physiological Method; and 
as he was himself an anatomist, there is nothing surprising in 
his having been led by his study of man’s structure to some con¬ 
clusions respecting man’s mind. He directed that attention to 
Sense which metaphysicians had been in the habit of directing 
to ideas and verbal subtleties; and by so doing, took an impor¬ 
tant step towards the confrontation of speculation with fact ; and 
initiated the still more important idea of a constant relation be¬ 
tween organ and function. He also was led to study the growth 
of mind ; and hence his frequent reference to savages and chil¬ 
dren, which distresses Victor Cousin, who is often as terrified at 
a fact as at a ghost. 

Great as Locke’s services were, there was a radical vice in his 
system which prevented its acceptance. He began the Physio¬ 
logical Method, but he only began it. The Experience-hypoth¬ 
esis would not suffice to explain all phenomena (at least not as 
that hypothesis was then understood); there were forms of 
thought neither reducible to Sense and Reflection, nor to indi¬ 
vidual Experience. He drew illustrations from children aud 
savages; but he neither did this systematically, nor did he ex¬ 
tend the Comparative Method 10 animals. The prejudices of that 
age forbade it. The ignorance of that age made it impossible. 
Comparative Physiology is no older than Goethe, and Compara¬ 
tive Psychology is only now glimmering in the minds of men as 
a possibility. If men formerly thought they could understand 
man’s body by dissecting it, and did not need the light thrown 
thereon by the dissection of animals; they were still less likely 


742 


CABANIS. 


* 


to seek psychical illustrations in animals, denying, as they did, 
that animals had minds. 

The school of Locke, therefore, although regarding Mind as a 
property of Matter, consequently directing attention to the hu¬ 
man organism, trying to understand the mechanism of sensation, 
and thus dealing with tangible realities instead of with impalpa¬ 
ble and ever-shifting entities, was really incompetent to solve the 
problems it had set itself, because its Method was imperfect, and 
its knowledge incomplete. The good effect of its labors was pos¬ 
itive ; the evil, negative. Following out this positive tendency, 
we see Hartley and Darwin advancing still nearer to a true 
Method ;—by a bold hypothesis, making the phenomena depen¬ 
dent on vibrations in the nerves; thus leading to a still more 
precise and definite consideration of the organism. 

These were, however, tentatives guided by no distinct concep¬ 
tion of the necessary relation between organ and function ; and 
the Physiological Method, truly so called, must be first sought in 
Caban is. 

Pierre Jean Georges Cabanis was born 5th of June, 1757, at 
Conac, near Drives. lie became a physician, and established 
himself at Auteuil, where, in the house of Madame Ilelvetius, he 
cultivated the acquaintance of Turgot, D’Holbach, Franklin, 
Condillac, Diderot, aud D’Alembert. To these let us add Con- 
dorcet and Mirabeau, both of whom he attended in their last 
hours. He died on the 6th of May, 1808. He wrote several 
works, but one only has survived in the memories of philosophic 
readers : Rapports du Physique et du Moral de VHomme* 

A disciple of Condillac, he nevertheless saw, more distinctly 
than any man before him, one radical vice of Condillac’s system, 
namely, the limitation of mental phenomena to sensations, aud 


* This work originally appeared as a series of Hemoires read before the 
Institute (1798-99). It was published as a separate book in 1802, under the 
title Traite du Physique et du Moral de VHomme ; which title is also borne by 
the second edition of 1805. Not until 1815, and after the death of Cabanis, 
was the word Bapports substituted for Traite. 



CABANIS. 


743 


the non-recognition of connate instincts. If sensation were the 
admitted source of all mental phenomena (and Cabauis rightly 
extended these phenomena beyond “ ideas”), it became the duty 
of philosophers to examine the nature of sensation itself. “ No 
one,” he says, “ had clearly explained in what the act of sensibil¬ 
ity consists. Does it always presuppose consciousness and dis¬ 
tinct perception.? and must we refer to some other property of 
the living body all those unperceived impressions and movements 
in which volition has no part ?” To put this question was to in¬ 
augurate a new study. It became necessary to examine whether 
all mental phenomena were not reducible to the fundamental 
laws of sensibility. “ All the while that the Intellect is judging 
and the Will is desiring or rejecting, many other functions are 
going on, all more or less necessary to the preservation of life. 
Have these diverse operations any influence, the one on the 
other? And is it possible from the consideration of different 
physical and moral states, which are observed simultaneously, to 
seize the relations which connect the most striking phenomena, 
with such precision as to be certain that in the other less obvi¬ 
ous cases, if the connection is less easily detected, it is so simply 
because the indications are too fugitive ?” 

This conception of a possible Psychology is in itself enough to 
mark forever the place of Cabanis in the History of Philosophy. 
It establishes Psychology as one branch of the great science of 
Life. It connects the operations of intelligence and volition with 
the origin of all vital movements. It makes Life and Mind cor- 
relatives. This was a revival of the great truth clearly recog¬ 
nized by Aristotle, from whom it descended to the Schoolmen. 
“ Impossible est,” says Aquinas, very emphatically, “ in uno 
homine esse plures animas per essentiam differentes, sed una tan- 
tum est anima intellectiva, quae vegetativae et sensitivse et intel- 
lectivse officiis fungitur.” The division of Life and Mind as 
two distinct entities was introduced by the Italians of the Renais¬ 
sance, adopted by Bacon, and once more rejected by Stahl, who 
returned to the Aristotelian conception. With the fall of Stahl’s 


CABANIS. 


744 

doctrine, the separation of Mind from Life again became the 
dictum of the schools, until Cabanis ; no one since Cabanis 
seems to have been thoroughly impressed with the unity of the 
two till Mr. Herbert Spencer presented it as the basis of psycho¬ 
logical induction.* The consequences were immediate : if Mind 
was to be studied as one aspect of Life, it could only be efficient¬ 
ly studied on that inductive and experimental Method which had 
reached the certain truths of positive science : “ Les principes 
fondamentaux seraient egalement solides; elles se formeraient 
egalement par l’etude severe et par la composition des faits; 
elles s’etendraient par les memes methodes de raisonnement.” 
Cabanis warns his readers that they will find nothing of what is 
called Metaphysics in his book; they will only find physiological 
researches, mais dirigees vers Vetude particuliere d'un ordre de 
fonctions. 

In the purely physiological direction, indeed, Cabanis had 
many predecessors, from Willis in the middle of the seventeenth 
century, to Prochaska, who preceded Cabanis by one year only.f 
The nervous system had of course been studied by physiologists, 
and this study led them to psychological theories; but although 
we may find elsewhere, especially in Unzer and Prochaska, 
sounder views of the physiology of the nervous system, we find 
nowhere so clear and large a conception of the physiological 
psychology. 

“ Subject to the action of external bodies,” says Cabanis, “ man 
finds in the impressions these bodies make on his organs at once 
his knowledge and the causes of his continued existence ; for to 
live is to feel; and in that admirable chain of phenomena which 
constitute his existence, every leant depends on the development 

* Spencer, Principles of Psychology, 1855. 

t Lehrsatze am der Physiologic des Menschen , 1797. Curiously enough the 
second and third editions of this work were exactly contemporaneous with 
the second and third editions of Cabanis, 1802 and 1805 (counting the publi¬ 
cation in the Memoires de VJnstitut as one edition). It is not to be supposed 
that Cabanis knew of Prochaska’s existence ; nor is there more than a gen¬ 
eral resemblance in their physiological conclusions. 



CABANI3. 


745 


of some faculty ; every faculty by its very development satisfies 
some want, and the faculties grow by exercise as the wants ex¬ 
tend with the facility of satisfying them. By the continual action 
of external bodies on the senses of man, results the most remark¬ 
able part of his existence. But is it true that the nervous cen¬ 
tres only receive and combine the impressions which reach them 
from these bodies ? Is it true that no image or idea is formed 
in the brain, and that no determination of the sensitive organ 
takes place, other than by virtue of these same impressions on 
the senses strictly so called ?”* 

This question cuts away the very root of Condillac’s system. 
Cabanis had no difficulty in showing that Condillac’s limitation of 
our mental phenomena to the action of the special senses, was a 
contradiction of familiar experience, e. g. the manifold influence 
exercised by the age, sex, temperament, and the visceral sensa¬ 
tions generally. A survey of the human organism, compared with 
that of animals, conducted him to the following conclusions: 

“The faculty of feeling and of spontaneous movement, forms 
the character of animal nature. 

“The faculty of feeling consists in the property possessed by 
the nervous system of being warned by the impressions produced 
on its different parts, and notably on its extremities. These im¬ 
pressions are internal or external. 

“ External impressions, when perception is distinct, are called 
sensations. 

“ Internal impressions are very often vague and confused, and 
the animal is then only warned by their effects, and does not 
clearly distinguish their connection with the causes. 

“The former result from the application of external objects to- 
the organs of sense; and on them ideas depend. 

“ The latter result from the development of the regular func¬ 
tions, or from the maladies to which each organ is subject; and 
from these issue those determinations which bear the name of; 
instincts. 


* Deuxieme Memoir e, § ii. 




746 


CABANIS. 


“Feeling a?nd movement are linked together. Every move¬ 
ment is determined by an impression, and the nerves, as the or¬ 
gans of feeling, animate and direct the motor organs. 

“In feeling, the nervous organ reacts on itself. In movement 
it reacts on other parts, to which it communicates the contractile 
faculty, the simple and fecund principle of all animal movement. 

“Finally, the vital functions can exercise themselves by the 
influence of some nervous ramifications, isolated from the sys¬ 
tem : the instinctive faculties can develop themselves, even when 
the brain is almost wholly destroyed, and when it seems wholly 
inactive. 

“But for the formation of thoughts it is necessary that the 
brain should exist, and be in a healthy condition : it is the spe¬ 
cial organ of thought.”* 

He justly repudiates any attempt to explain sensibility, which 
must be accepted as a general property of organized beings, in 
the same way that attraction is accepted as a general property ot 
masses. No general fact admits of explanation. It can only be 
subordinated to some other fact, and be explained by it, on the 
supposition that it is not general. Accepting sensibility, there¬ 
fore, as an ultimate fact in the organic world, he detects its phe¬ 
nomena running through all those called vital and all those called 

o o 

mental. 

“ It is something,” he says, “ to have established that all ideas 
and all moral phenomena are the results of impressions received 
by the different organs; and I think a still wider step is taken 
.when we have shown that these impressions have appreciable 
. differences, and that we can distinguish them by their seat and 
the character of their products, although they all act and react 
on each other, on account of the rapid and continual communi¬ 
cations with the sensitive organ.”f The object of his treatise is 
to examine the relations existing between the moral and physical 
(.conditions, how the sensations are modified bv modifications in 


* Deuxieme Memoirs, § viii. 


f Ibid., § v. 



CABANIS. 


747 


the organs, how ideas, instincts, passions are developed and mod 
ified by the influences of age, sex, temperament, maladies, etc. 
It is not, therefore, a treatise on Psychology, but contributions 
towards a science of Psychology, and as such may still be read 
with advantage, although the science of the present day rejects 
many of its physiological details. He foresaw that this would be 
so. u Le lecteur s’apercevra bientot que nous entrons ici dans 
une carriere toute nouvelle. Je n’ai pas la pretention de l’avoir 
parcouru jusqu’au bout; mais des hommes plus habiles et plus 
heureux acheveront ce que trop souvent je n’ai pu que tenter.” 

As a specimen of inductive Psychology, we must not pass over 
in silence his experimental proof of instinct being developed by 
certain organic conditions. He tabes one of the most marvellous 
of instincts, that of maternal love, and having analyzed its phys¬ 
iological conditions, he says “ In my province, and some of the 
neighboring provinces, when there is a deficiency of sitting Hens, 
a singular practice is customary. We take a capon, pluck off 
the feathers from the abdomen, rub it with nettles and vinegar, 
and in this state of local irritation place the capon on the eggs. 
At first he remains there to soothe the pain; soon there is estab¬ 
lished within him a series of unaccustomed but agreeable im- 
pressions, which attach him to these eggs during the whole 
period of incubation ; and the effect is to produce in him a sort 
of factitious maternal love, which endures, like that of the hen, 
as long as the chickens have need of aid and protection. The 
cock is not thus to be modified; he has an instinct which 
carries him elsewhere.” 

The novelty of the conception which Cabanis put forth, and 
the interest attached to many of his illustrations, made his work 
very popular; but its influence was. only indirect. The igno¬ 
rance which almost all psychologists continued to display, not 
only of Physiology, but of the necessity of a physiological 
Method, together with the alarm excited by the accusation of 
“ materialism,” aided as it was by the reaction, mainly political, 
but soon extending itself to philosophical questions, which con- 


74S 


CABANIS. 


demned the labors of the eighteenth century, left Cabanis with 
few adherents and no continuers. In elaborate works the brain 
was still designated as the “organ of the mind,” but the mind 
was passionately declared not to be the function of the brain; 
the profounder views of Cabanis, which regarded Mind as one 
aspect of Life, were replaced by the old metaphysical concep¬ 
tions of le Mol —the Ego—the immaterial Entity 'playing upon 
the brain as a musician plays upon an instrument.* Instinct 
was no longer regarded as determined by the organism, chang¬ 
ing with its changes, rendered abortive by mutilations, arid ren¬ 
dered active by stimulation ; but as a “ mysterious principle im¬ 
planted” in the organism: a “ something” which, although es¬ 
sentially mysterious and unknowable, appeared to be perfectly 
well known to the metaphysicians. 

While the reaction was strong against Cabanis and against 
the whole eighteenth-century Philosophy, there arose another 
doctrine, which, taking Physiology as its avowed basis, succeeded, 
in spite of vehement opposition, in establishing itself perma¬ 
nently among the intellectual tendencies of the age; and that 
doctrine may now be said to be the only psychological one which 
counts any considerable mass of adherents. I allude to Phre¬ 
nology. 


* One living writer, of authority, has gravely declared that mental fa¬ 
tigue is the consciousness which the mind has of the brain's weariness! 
In our confessed inability to understand what matter is, why will men 
persist in dogmatizing on what it is not ? IVe know neither matter noi 
spirit, wo only know phenomena. 



CHAPTER II. 


PHRENOLOGY. 

§ I. Life of Gall. 

Francis Joseph Gall was born at Tiefenbrunn, in Suabia, on 
the 9th of March, 1757. In the preface to his great work, 
Anatomie et Physioloyie du Systdme Nerveux , 1810, he narrates 
how as a boy he was struck with the differences of character and 
talents displayed by members of the same family, and how he 
observed certain external peculiarities of the head to correspond 
with these differences. Finding no clue given in the works of 
metaphysicians, he resumed his observations of nature. The 
physician of a lunatic asylum at Vienna allowed him frequent 
occasions of noticing the coincidence of peculiar monomaniacs 
with peculiar configurations of the skull. The prisons and 
courts of justice furnished him with abundant material. When¬ 
ever he heard of a man remarkable either for good or evil, 
he made his head a study. He extended his observation to ani¬ 
mals; and finally sought confirmation in anatomy. The exterior 
of the skull he found, as a general rule, to correspond with the 
form of the brain. 

After twenty years of observation, dissection, theorizing, and 
arguing, he delivered his first course of lectures in Vienna. This 
was in 1790. The novelty of his views excited a great sensation ; 
one party fanatically opposing them, another almost as fanatically 
espousing them. Ridicule was not sparing. The new system 
lent itself to ridicule, and angry opponents were anxious, as oppo¬ 
nents usually are, to show that what made them angry was utterly 
farcical. In 1800 Gall gained his best disciple, Spurzheim. 


750 


PHRENOLOGY. 


Hitherto Gall had been aided by a young anatomist named 
Niklas, to whom he taught the new method of dissecting the 
brain ;* now Spurzheim’s mastery of anatomical manipulation, 
combined with his power of generalization and of popular expo¬ 
sition, came as welcome aids in the gigantic task of establishing 
the new doctrine on a scientific basis. 

In 1802, M. Charles Villers, the translator of Ivant, published 
his Lcttre a Georges Cuvier sur une Nouvelle Theorie du Cerveau 
par le Docteur Gall. I have not been able to procure this Let¬ 
ter, but it is in many points interesting to the historian of Phre¬ 
nology, because it not only expounds the doctrine as it was then 
conceived, but describes the localization of the organs then 
fixed on by Gall. A plate represents the skull, marked by 
Gall himself, with the four-and-twenty organs, which at that 
period comprised the “ original faculties ” of the mind. Among 
these twenty-four, there are four subsequently discarded alto¬ 
gether : Vital Force—Susceptibility—Penetration (independent 
of that which characterizes the metaphysical faculty)—and Gen¬ 
erosity (independent of benevolence.) Not only are these four as* 
tonishiug organs marked by Gall as representing original facul¬ 
ties, but the twenty organs which were afterwards retained by 
him are differently localized ; so that, according to M. Lelut, 
from whom I borrow these details, “of those twenty organs 
there is scarcely one which occupies the place Gall finally as¬ 
signed to it.”f 

Phrenologists should give prominence to this fact. They are 
bound not to pass it over. In every way it is important in the 
history of the doctrine. It may perhaps be satisfactorily 
explained ; but until it be so explained, it must tell against them ; 
and for the very reason which they incessantly advance as their 
claim to consideration, namely, that the several organs were 


* Gall pays his tribute to Niklas in the first edition of the Anat. et Phys . 
du Systeme Ncrveux , i. preface xv. In the second edition this tribute is omit¬ 
ted ; not very creditably. 

t Lelut: liejet de l'Organologie Phrenologique, 1843, p. 29. 



LTFE OF GALL. 


751 


established by observation , not by any theory.* For, if the doctrine 
had been established by a mingling of hypothesis and observa¬ 
tion, nothing would be more likely than that the first sketch of it 
would be immature in conception, and uncertain in details; 
whereas, if the doctrine grew up slowly from a gradual accumu¬ 
lation of rigorously verified facts, these facts would remain con¬ 
stant through all the tentative changes of doctrine, Gall had 
been twenty years collecting facts of correspondence between ex¬ 
ternal configuration and peculiarities of character. He had con¬ 
trolled these observations by repeated verifications. Prisons, 
lunatic asylums, busts, portraits, remarkable men, even animals, 
had furnished him with facts. Unless these facts really deserve 
all the credit which is demanded for them, Phrenology has the 
ground cut from under it; and if we are to give them our confi¬ 
dence, upon what ground can we relinquish it in favor of subse¬ 
quent facts, which deny all that has been said before ? If Gall 
could be deceived after twenty years of observation of facts 
which, according to his statement, are very easily observed, be¬ 
cause very obvious in their characters, why may he not have 
been equally deceived in subsequent observations ? If one col¬ 
lection of facts forced him to assign the organ of poetry to a 
particular spot (on the skull marked by him for M. Yillers), how 
came another collection of facts to displace poetry, and substitute 
benevolence on that spot ? Are the manifestations of poetry and 
benevolence so closely allied as to mislead the observer ? 

Probably Spurzheim’s assistance came at the right moment to 
rectify many of the hazardous psychological statements, and to 
marshal the facts in better order. Together they made a tour 
through Germany and Switzerland, diffusing the knowledge of 
their doctrine, and everywhere collecting fresh facts. On the 
30th of October, 1806, they entered Paris. In 1808 they pre- 

* “ On voit par la marche de ces reclierehes que le premier pas fut fait par 
la decouverte de quelques organes ; que ce n’est quegraduellement que nous 
avons fait parler les faits pour en deduireles principes generaux, et que c’est 
subsequetnment et a la fin que nous avons appris & connaitre la structure du 
cerveau.”— Anat. et Phys. i. preface xviii. 




PHRENOLOGY. 


sented to the Institute their Memoire on the Anatomy and Physi 
ology of the Nervous System in general , and of the Brain in 
particular ; and in 1810 appeared the first volume of their great 
work, under the same title, which work was remodelled in 1823, 
and published in six volumes, octavo, under the title of Fonctions 
du Cerveau. 

In 1813 Gall and Spurzheim quarrelled and separated. Spurz- 
heim came to England, Gall remained in Paris, where he died 
on the 22d of August, 1828. At the post-mortem examination, 
his skull was found to be of at least twice the usual thickness,—a 
fact which has been the source of abundant witticisms, for the 
most part feeble. A small tumor was also found in his cerebel¬ 
lum : t; a fact of some interest, from that being the portion of the 
brain in which he had placed the organ of amativeness, a pro¬ 
pensity which had always been very strongly marked in him.’’* 
I know not in what sense the writer just quoted thinks the fact 
so remarkable. Tumors in other organs are not usuallv the indi- 
cations of increased activitv; nor are we accustomed to find 
great poets, with tumors in the organ of “ imaginationgreat 
artists with tumors in the perceptive region; great philanthro¬ 
pists with tumors on the frontal arch; great rebels with tumors 
behind their ears.f 

§ II. Gall's Historical Position. 

The day for ridiculing Gall has gone by. Every impartial com¬ 
petent thinker, whether accepting or rejecting Phrenology, is 
aware of the immense services Gall has rendered to Physiologv 
and Psychology, both by his valuable discoveries, and by his bold, 
if questionable, hypotheses. He revolutionized Physiology by 
his method of dissecting the brain, and bv his bold assignment 

* The English Cyclopedia, vol. iii., Art. Gall. 

t To anticipate the reply that the existence of disease in the organ would 
provoke unusual activity of the organ, it is only necessary to state that Gall's 
“ propensity” is not said to have been called into unusual activity shortly 
before his death, but to have always been very active. Had there been a 
casual connection between the disease and the activity, increase of the acliv- 
lty would have followed the rapid progress of the disease. 



gall's historical position. 


753 


(, f definite fun c do ns to dennite organs. To verify or refute his 
hypotheses, vast researches were undertaken ; the nervous system 
c: amma.s -was explored with new and passionate zeal: and now 
tnere :s no physiologist who openly denies that mental phenom¬ 
ena are directly connected with nervous structure; while even 
Metaphysicians are beginning to understand the Mechanism of 
the Senses, and the general laws of nervous action. The time 
has arrived in which it seems almost as absurd to theorize on 
mental phenomena in defiance of physiological laws, as it would 
be to adopt Stahl’s ad rice, and consider anatomical and chemical 
researches futile in the stndr of Medicine. TVe owe this mainly 

m m 

to tne influence of Gall. He first brought into requisite promi¬ 
nence the principle of the necessary relation between onran and 
function. Others had proclaimed the principle incidentally: he 
made :: paramount by constant illustration, by showing it in de- 
tad. by teaching that every variation in the organ must necessa- 
rily bring about a corresponding variation in the function. He 
did not say mind was the product of organization: ** Xous ne 
confondons pas les conditions avee les causes efficientes f all he 
asserted was the correspondence between the state of the orwan 
and its manifestations.* This was at once to call the attention 
of Europe to the marvellous apparatus of organs, which ha d pre¬ 
viously been so little studied, except from a purely anatomical 
view, that no one. until Sommerring (who was Gall’s contemp> 
rary . had observed the relation between size of the brain and in¬ 
tellectual power, as a tolerably constant fact in the animal king¬ 
dom. This one detail is snffi rient to make every reader suspect the 
chaotic condition of Physiological Psychology when Gall appeared. 

Sot has Gall's infiuence teen less remarkable in the purely 
psychological direction. People are little aware how that infiu- 

+ So Spnrzbeim 5 o.ts: •* Both I>r. Gal an! I have al wavs declared that 
■a-e mereij oserre the elective and intellectual manifestation-. and tee or¬ 
pine eon iitions nn ier which thev Take place; and that in using 1 the word 
orrans : n. v tt oar. the organ": e tars ov means of which the faculties of the 
; >... ; . t t ~o: :e the mind.’"—d - 

fr> p* *-*• 





PHRENOLOGY. 


754: 

ence is diffused, even through the writings of the opponents of 
Phrenology, and has percolated down to the most ordinary intel¬ 
ligences. “ Ni les vains efforts d’un despotisme energique,” says' 
Auguste Comte, “ secondes par la honteuse condescendance de 
quelques savans fort accredites, ni les sarcasmes ephemeres de 
1’esprit litteraire et metaphysique, ni meme la frivole irrationa- 
lite de la plupart des essais tentes par les imitateurs de Gall, 
n'ont pu empecher pendant les trente dernieres annees l’accroisse- 
ment rapide et continu, dans toutes les parties du monde savant, 
du nouveau systeme d’etudes de l’homme intellectual et moral. 
A quels autres signes voudrait-on reconnaltre le sucees progres- 
sif d’une heureuse revolution philosophique ?”* 

Gall may be said to have definitively settled the dispute be¬ 
tween the partisans of innate ideas and the partisans of Sensa¬ 
tionalism, by establishing the connate tendencies, both affective 
and intellectual, which belong to the organic structure of man. 
Two psychological facts, familiar from all time to the ordinary 
understanding, but shrouded from all time in the perplexities of 
philosophy, were by Gall made the basis of a doctrine. The 
first of these facts is, that all the fundamental tendencies are con¬ 
nate, and can no more be created by precept and education than 
they can be abolished by denunciation and punishment. The 
second fact is, that man’s various faculties are essentially distinct 
and independent, although intimately connected with each other. 

What followed ? That the Mind consists of a plurality of func- 

• 

tions, consequently must have a plurality of organs, became the 
necessary corollary of this second proposition, as soon as the re¬ 
lation between organ and function was steadily conceived. 

These two propositions have entered into the body of all Euro¬ 
pean doctrines, although the corollary from the second is still 
vehemently disputed by many. No man of any intellectual 
eminence would now repeat Johnson’s celebrated assertion of the 
poetic faculty being simply intellectual activity in a special di 


* Cours de Philos. Positive , iii. 766. 




CRANIOSCOPY. 


i 00 

rection, whereby Newton might have written Othello, and Shak- 
speare the Principia , had either of these great men set them¬ 
selves the task. “ Sir, a man can walk as far east as he can walk 
west,” was thought a conclusive illustration; which indeed it 
was, when the “ unity” of the faculties found no contradiction ; 
but which no one would now accept as more than a fallacious 
analogy. 

Another conception systematized by Gall has also passed into 
general acceptance, namely, the pre-eminence of the affective 
faculties over the intellectual; and the subdivision of the affec¬ 
tive faculties into propensities and sentiments, and of the intel¬ 
lectual faculties into perceptives and reflectives; thus marking 
the progress in development from the individual to the social, 
from the sensuous to the intellectual, which constitutes the great 
progress of civilization in the triumph of sociality over animality. 

§ III. Cranioscopy. 

Phrenology has two distinct aspects. It is a doctrine of Psy¬ 
chology, and it is an Art of reading character. The scientific 
doctrine is based on the physiology of the nervous system, to 
which is added psychological analysis and classification. The 
Art is based on empirical observation of coincidences between 
certain configurations of the skull and certain mental phenomena. 
This latter is truly Cranioscopy, and is no more entitled to the 
name of a science, than are Physiognomy or Cheironomy; a 
point which Gall’s successors have, with scarcely an exception, 
entirely overlooked. When therefore the phrenologists with 
much emphasis declare their system to be a system of “ facts” 
and “ observations,” which claim our confidence because they 
are facts and not “ mere theories,” it is absolutely necessary that 
we-should accurately discriminate in what sense these said facts 
are to be understood; because according to that sense will be 
the kind of confidence they will claim. If, for instance, they are 
presented purely as empirical facts—the observed coincidences 
between certain cranial appearances and corresponding mental 
51 


HlKKXOl iVrV. 


■» *■ » 

i 0(> 

nuuu(e$tntioQS—we may thankfully accept them as valuable 
materials. Abundance of such material does exist: no one 
acquainted, even superficially, with phrenological writings will 
dcr.v it.. lb:; whhou: desiring to lessen the value of these f k 
bv rigorous cri:\ ism of the evidence on which thev rest, w e may, 
nay more, w e must, if our inquiry bo regulated by scientific pre¬ 
cision, treat them as we treat ail other emo r eai tarts, namely, 
hold them as mere sign-poets, until they be proved triirrrsaf, 
and until thev be Kmnd together bv some ascertained law. Now 
it will scarcely bo denied that the observed correspondences be- 
tween special cranial configuration and mental peculiarities, do, 
in many instances, fail. Large heads are sometimes observed in 
connection with very mediocre abilities; small heads, on the 
contrary, with very splendid abilities; particular “organs” do 
r.ot always ; tst 'V thro- .. . by ti.r t r^rnce of the par¬ 
ticular “faculties” which they av i to ind I v 

rather to understate than overstate the difficulty, and 1 will not 
seek to gain any advantage by multiplying exceptions; it is 
enough for the present argument if any exceptions have been 
elsmved: because a tty exception to an empirical generalixat 
is fatal to it as an empirical generalization, and can only be set 
aside when the generalisation has ceased to be empirical, and 
has become scientific. Thus, 1 am aw are that phrenologists ex¬ 
plain each exception to tlieir perfect satisfaction. But, in 
explaining it, they quit the sphere of empirical observation to 
enter that of science; and thus their explanation itself has onlv 
the validitv which can be given it bv theory. To make mv 
meaning more definite, let us suppose that the empirical general¬ 
ization of large chests being the cause of great muscular power, 
is under discussion. As an observed fact—an empirical fact— 
the correspondence of broad chests and muscular strength, is a 
valuable addition to our empirical knowledge. Taken as an in¬ 
dication, no one disputes the fact; but taken as a cause, and 
connected with a physiological theory, it bears quite a different 
value. The physiologist may say that the fact proves breadth 


CRAXI0900PV. 


fm — mm 

( 0 i 

of chest to admit of more perfect oxygenation of the blood, and 
thus causes greater muscular power. Against such a theory we 
bring the fact that no absolute and constant relation between 
broad chests and muscular power exists: if we find large chests 
accompanying strength, we also find small chests in certain lithe, 
wiry frames accompanying even greater strength; the empirical 
generalization is thus destroyed, the explanation is shown to be 
imperfect, and the ratio of muscular power is shown to depend 
on some oilier condition besides the oxygenation of the blood. 

When phrenologists explain away the exceptions to their em¬ 
pirical facts, they are on the field of pure science, and their ex¬ 
planations can only haye value in proportion to the validity of 
the scientific principles inyoked; and thus the Art of Cranios- 
copy is perpetually forced to recur to that yery Physiology which 
the successors of Gall have so unwisely neglected, and of which 
(because it refuses its aid ?) they often speak so contemptuously. 
The fact of a large head with a small mental capacity, or of a 
small head with a ere at mental capacity, is explained by them 
as resulting from the difference in the u temperaments of the 
two. But have they discriminated the conditions thus yaguely 
indicated by the word temperament ? Haye they estimated the 
^rro^tortions in which the temperaments are mingled ? Haye they 
discovered a means of valuation by which the exact influence of 
each temperament can be estimated ? They have not even made 
the attempt. 

And vet that such a valuation is indispensable to the scientific 
precision of their results, must be evident to every one. "VN hat, 
strictly speaking, is this “ temperament' 1 which acts as a disturb¬ 
ing force in the calculation ? I believe that science will one day 
show that it is the result of that law of indeterminate composi¬ 
tion which distinguishes living tissue trom all other substai.ee>. 
Inorganic bodies combine according to the law of determinate 
composition : the proportions of the constituent elements are 
fixed, definite, invariable. In water we invariably find SS’9 ot 
oxygon, and 11 1 of hydrogen, in every 100 parts; never more, 


758 


PHRENOLOGY. 


never less; let the water be dew, rain, snow, or artificially pro¬ 
duced in the laboratory, its composition is always determinate, 
even to the fraction. In any piece of flint every 100 parts will 
be composed of 48‘2 of silicon and 51*8 of oxygen; never more, 
never less. But this is not the case with organic substances 
(those at least which we ventured to distinguish as teleorganic 
substances),* which are indeterminate in composition. Elemen¬ 
tary analyses do not yield constant results, as do the analyses ot 
inorganic substances. Nerve-tissue, for example, contains both 
phosphorus and water, as constituent elements ; but the quantity 
of these elements varies within certain limits; some nerve-tissues 
have more phosphorus; some more water; and according to 
these variations in the composition will be the variations in the 
nervous force evolved. This is the reason why brains differ so 
enormously even when their volumes are equal. The brain dif¬ 
fers at different ages, and in different individuals. Sometimes 
water constitutes three-fourths of the whole weight, sometimes 
four-fifths, and sometimes even seven-eighths. The phosphorus 
varies from 0-80 to 1*65, and T80 ; the cerebral fat varies from 
3-45 to 5*30, and even 6T0. These facts wfill help to explain 
many of the, striking exceptions to phrenological observations 
(such, for example, as the manifest superiority of some small 
6rains over some large brains), and are, indeed, included within 
the comprehensive formula constantly advanced by phrenologists 
that “size is a measure of power, other things being equal.” In 
this formula there is a truth, and an equivoque. The truth may 
be passed over by us, as claiming instantaneous assent. The 
equivoque must arrest us. Phrenologists forget that here “ the 
other things” never are equal; and consequently their dictum, 

* Matter is divided into Inorganic and Organic; in 18531 proposed a mod¬ 
ification of this division into—1. Anorganic; 2. Merorganic; and 3. Tele- 
organic : the first including those usually styled inorganic; the second in¬ 
cluding those substances in an intermediate state, either wanting some 
addition to become living, or having lost some elements, and passed from 
the vital state into that of product; the third including only the truly vital 
substances. 



CEANIOSCOPY. 


759 


w size is a measure of power,” is without application. There 
never is equality in the things compared, because two brains ex 
actly similar in size, and external configuration, will nevertheless 
differ in elementary composition. The difference may be slight, 
but however slight, it materially affects the result. The differ¬ 
ence of elementary composition brings with it a difference in 
development; and by development, I do not mean growth, but 
differentiation * Parallel with these differences, not appreciable 
by any means in the phrenologist’s power, there are psychologi¬ 
cal differences, resulting from the effect of education. So that 
to say “ size is the measure of power,” is as vague as to say “ age 
is the measure of wisdom because, although it is true that size 
is an index of power, and, other things being equal, the greater 
the brain the greater the mental power, it is equally true, that 
age and experience in minds of equal capacity will produce pro¬ 
portionate wisdom : unfortunately we cannot get minds of equal 
capacity placed uuder the same conditions ; and thus it happens 
that we find some men with large brains inferior to others with 
much smaller brains, and men of patriarchal length of years more 
unwise than their nephews. 

And, in a less degree, this is true of size, taken as the measure 
of power, between one organ and another in the same brain. 
Failing utterly when two different brains are compared, the indi¬ 
cation of size will be no more than approximative when two 
parts of the same brain are compared; although in this case the 
other things are necessarily more nearly equal: it is the same 
nerve-tissue, the same temperament we are dealing with. In a 
given brain, therefore, we may reasonably expect to find that any 
one organ which is larger in size than another, will be more 
powerful in function. But although this, as an empirical gener¬ 
alization, is a valuable indication, it is by no means certain, be¬ 
cause there may be, and indeed usually is, a difficulty thrown in 

* I have explained, at some length, the relation of growth and develop¬ 
ment in an article on Dwarfs and Giants , in Frazer's Magazine for August 
and September, 1856. 




760 


PHRENOLOGY. 


the way by the inappreciable yet potent differences of development 
which have taken place. Differentiations occur in two direc¬ 
tions, in elementary composition and in morphological develop¬ 
ment. One brain may have more phosphorus than another; 
and in the same brain one organ may be vesicular or more fibrous 
than another. Thus it by no means follows that a man with re¬ 
flective organs large in size, shall have so exercised these organs 
as to have brought their development into proportional advance; 
while on the other hand his smaller imaginative organs mav 
have been so developed by culture and exercise, as to have placed 
them on a par in efficiency with the reflectives. Daily expe¬ 
rience assures us that such is the case; and the philosophic 
phrenologist might point to it as one explanation of the many 
exceptions which Cranioscopy must necessarily encounter in its 
attempt to read character according to external indications. 

This is not the place for an examination of Phrenology as an 
Art, or as a Science. I content myself, therefore, with the fore¬ 
going indication of what I believe to be the true position of 
Cranioscopy, and some of the difficulties which beset it. That 
the collection of observed correspondences between certain con¬ 
figurations of the skull and certain mental characteristics, is a 
worthy task, and one which must materially aid the science of 
Psychology, I do not think would be denied by any philosopher, 
if it were undertaken with that subsidiary aim; but when phrenol¬ 
ogists obtrude their “system” on the notice of philosophers, 
declaring it to be a completed science of Psychology, and a 
true method of reading character, they must not be surprised if 
contradiction meet them on all sides, and if this contradiction 
often speak the language of contempt: since daily experience 
cannot sanction the present pretensions of the Art, because the 
Art is found to be constantly at fault; nor cai^ psychologists 
recognize the pretensions of the Science. 


PHRENOLOGY AS A SCIENCE. 


761 


§ IV. Phrenology as a Science. 

To defend their Art, phrenologists are compelled to recur tc 
their Doctrine, founded on the physiology of the nervous sys¬ 
tem, and on a psychological classification of the faculties. Indeed, 
while on the one hand we find every phrenologist since Gall, 
Spurzheim, and Vimont, occupied entirely with Cranioscopy, and 
many even speaking with disdain of anatomists and physiolo¬ 
gists ; on the other hand we find them anxious to bring forward 
physiological and pathological evidence, whenever that evidence 
favors their views; and we hear them confidently assert that 
Phrenology is the only true Physiology of the nervous system. 
This latter assertion I am quite willing to echo, if the terms be 
somewhat modified, and the phrase run thus: “Phrenology aspires 
to be the true Physiology of the nervous system; when that 
Physiology is complete, Phrenology will be complete.” But for 
the present we find Physiology confessing its incompleteness— 
confessing itself in its infancy ; whereas Phrenology claims to be 
complete, equipped, full-statured ! Rightly considered, that very 
claim is a condemnation of Phrenology, as at present understood. 
The pretension of being a perfect or nearly perfect system, surely 
implies a profound ignorance of the subject, an entire misconcep¬ 
tion of the complexity of the problem it pretends to have solved. 
At a time when Science is unable to solve the problem of three 
gravitating bodies, phrenologists pretend to find no difficulty in 
calculating the result of forces so complex as those which con¬ 
stitute character : at a time when the nervous system is confessed, 
by all who have studied it, to be extremely ill-understood, the 
functions of that system are supposed to be established; at a 
time when Physiology is so rapidly advancing that every decade 
renders most books antiquated, a Psychology professedly foundedi 
on that advancing science remains immovable! 

Gall was on the right path when he entitled his first great 
work Anatomy and Physiology of the Nervous System* Ilis 


* “ Quiconque,” he says, “est convaincu que la structure des parties du 




762 


PHRENOLOGY. 


successors have quitted that path. In spite of his emphatic dec¬ 
larations, when he was engaged in his exposition of the anatomv 
and physiology of the nervous system,* * declarations of the neces 
sity there was always to make the study of organ and function 
go hand in hand, so that he would only have his labors regarded 
“ as the basis of an essay towards a more perfect work in spite, 
we say, of every philosophical consideration, his successors have 
neglected Physiology for Cranioscopy; not one of them has 
made or attempted to make any discovery or extension of dis¬ 
covery in the direction Gall so successfully opened; and the 
result of this neglect has been twofold—first, that since Gall and 
Spurzheim, Phrenology has not taken a single step ; second, that 
all the eminent physiologists of Europe who have devoted them¬ 
selves to the study of the nervous system, unanimously reject a 
theory which does not keep pace with the advance of science. 
It is very easy for phrenologists to disregard the unanimous 
opposition of physiologists, and to place this opposition to the 
account of prejudice, or the “not having sufficiently studied 
Phrenologybut an impartial on-looker sees clearly enough 
that, making every allowance for prejudice, the opposition rests 
mainly on the discrepancy between the facts stated by phrenol¬ 
ogists and the facts which Science has hitherto registered. Had 
phrenologists kept themselves acquainted with what was grad¬ 
ually being discovered by physiologists, they would have seen 
that something more than prejudice must be at work when all 
the eminent neurologists, such as Serres, Flourens, Majendie, 
Leuret, Longet, Lelut, Lafargue, Bouillaud, Baillarger, Muller, 
Valentin, and comparative anatomists such as Owen, declare 
against Phrenology; although every one of these is ready to 
idmit the importance of Gall’s method of dissection, ready to 
incorporate whatever results Gall arrived at, which can be in any 

cerveau a un rapport necessaire et immediat avec leurs fonctions, trouvera 
qu’il est naturel de reunir ces deux objects l’un a l’autre, en les considerant 
et en les traitant comine un seul et mthne corps de doctrine.”— An. et Phys. t 
pref. xxv. 

* Compare his Anat.et PJiys. da Syst. Kerveux , i. 95 and 271. 



PHRENOLOGY AS A SCIENCE. 


763 


way confirmed. I do not blame phrenologists for having ren¬ 
dered no assistance to Physiology by their own labors; but I 
am forced to point out the historical consequences of their hav¬ 
ing neglected to follow the path commenced by Gall, and devi¬ 
ated into that of simple Cranioscopy. The neglect of which 
they complain, is entirely owing to their presenting a rude sketch 
as a perfect science, and to their keeping behind the science of 
their day, instead of on a level with it. Impatient of contradic¬ 
tion, they shut their eyes to difficulties; unable to accommodate 
their principles to the principles of Physiology, they contempt¬ 
uously dismiss objections as “ merely theoretical,” and fall back 
upon their “ well-established facts.” 

Gall undertook a gigantic task. He produced a revolution, 
and his name will always live in the history of Science. It is 
idle to attempt to undervalue his work by citing his predecessors. 
Others before him had thought of localizing the different facul¬ 
ties in different parts of the brain. He and Spurzheim have 
mentioned such predecessors.* These, however, are very vague, 
unfertile conceptions; they in no way lessen Gall’s originality. 
A nearer approach is to be read in Prochaska, whom Gall often 
mentions, although he does not, I think, mention this particular 
anticipation. It is the third section of chapter five, and is enti¬ 
tled, “Do each of the divisions of the intellect occupy a sepa¬ 
rate portion of the brain ?” and it concludes thus: “ It is by no 
means improbable that each division of the intellect has its allot¬ 
ted organ in the brain, so that there is one for the perceptions, 
another for the understanding, probably others also for the will 
and imagination and memory, which act wonderfully in concert 
and mutually excite each other to action. The organ of imagi¬ 
nation, however, amongst the rest will be far apart from the 
organ of perceptions.”! How far this general supposition of a 

* Fonctions du Cerveau, ii. 350 sq. Compare also Lelut: Rejet de V Orga- 
nologia , p. 21 sq ., and Prochaska, p. 374 sq. 

+ Prochaska, p. 447. There is a remarkable passage, too long for quotation 
here, in Willis’s Cerebri Anatorne, c. x. p. 125, on the convolutions as indi 



764 


PHRENOLOGY. 


“ probability” is from Gall’s specific attempt to localize the or¬ 
gans, need not be pointed out. The attempt was far from being 
fully successful; but, as a tentative, it was truly philosophical, 
and produced a revolution. 

Having once conceived the brain to be an apparatus of organs, 
not a siugle organ, the problem was to analyze this apparatus 
into its constituent organs, and to assign to each its special func¬ 
tion. In this difficult problem Gall, by the necessities of his po¬ 
sition as a system-founder, was forced to proceed on a false 
method, namely, that of determining the separate organs accord¬ 
ing to a purely physiological and superficial analysis, instead of 
subordinating this analysis to anatomical verification. It is this 
arbitrary and unscientific proceeding which has made all anato¬ 
mists reject the system. What would he have said to a physi¬ 
ologist who, knowing that the liver formed bile and sugar, should 
have assigned the function of bile-formation to one lobe, and 
the function of sugar-formation to another lobe, no structural dif 
ferences having been observed ? or who should assign to the 
different lobules of the kidney functions as different as are as¬ 
signed to the different convolutions of the brain ? It is perfectly 
true that from inspection of an organ no idea of its function can 
be obtained ; and this truth has blinded phrenologists who are 
not physiologists to the necessity of nevertheless always making 
anatomy the basis of every physiological analysis. No inspection of 
the alimentary canal could disclose to us that its function was that 
of digestion. Nevertheless the function of digestion, except in 
the crude conception of ordinary men, is only intelligible after a 
rigorous analysis of the several processes, buccal, stomachal, and 
intestinal; for the intelligence of each of which, we must assign 
to each gland its specific secretion, and to each secretion its spe¬ 
cific action : a physiologist who should attempt the explanation 
of digestion on any other mode would justly be slighted by every 

eating intellectual superiority. I give only the opening ; “Plicae suntcon- 
volutiones cerebri long£ plures ac majores inhominesunt quAm in quoviaalio 
animali, nempe propter varios et multiplices facultatum superiorum actus.” 




PHRENOLOGY AS A SCIENCE. 


765 


good biologist in Europe. If Phrenology is the Physiology of 
the nervous system, it must give up Gall’s approximative method 
for a method more rigorously scientific; and as Auguste Comte 
justly remarks, phrenologists, before they can take rank among 
men of science, must “ reprendre, par une serie derecte de travaux 
anatomiques, l’analyse fondamentale de l’appareil cerebral, en 
faisant provisoirement abstraction de toute idee de fonctions.”* 

One of the fundamental questions which must be answered by 
this anatomical analysis, is that which no phrenologist condescends 
to ask, namely, Are the convolutions the seat of intelligence? in 
other words, Is the gray vesicular matter which forms the surface 
of the brain, the sole and specific seat of those changes on which 
all mental phenomena depend ? This is a question which Crani- 
oscopy may ignore, since the facts on which Cranioscopy is 
founded are little if at all affected by it. To Phrenology the ques¬ 
tion is initial, all-important; because if the “Physiology of the 
nervous system” should turn out defective in its basis, the whole 
scaffolding will have to be erected anew. I put the question in 
two forms, because although it is commonly said that the convo¬ 
lutions of the brain form the organs, yet as many animals are alto¬ 
gether without convolutions, the vesicular surface, whether convo¬ 
luted or not, must be understood as the seat of mental changes; 
the convolutions being only a mode of increasing the surface. 

As the space at my disposal is inadequate to any exhaustive 
discussion of this important question, the reader will be satisfied 
with a brief indication of the doubt which Physiology forces me 
to express respecting the convolutions as the specific seat of men¬ 
tal manifestations. I cannot reconcile the current opinion on 
that subject with anatomical and zoological facts. I believe that 
the vesicular matter which constitutes the convolutions, is only 
one factor in the sum; it would, however, lead me too far to 
enter on the discussion, which might be objected to as at present 
only hypothetical. 

* Coursde Philosophie Positive , iii. 821. Comte is much more favorable to Gall 
than I am, yet see his remarks on the multiplication of the faculties, p. 823 sq. 




706 


PHRENOLOGY. 


Quitting all hypothetical considerations for the less questiona 
ble evidence of facts, I find M. Baillarger*—who invented a 
new method of measuring the surfaces of brains, by dissecting 
out all the white substance from their interior, and then unfold¬ 
ing the exterior, and taking a cast of it—declaring from his meas¬ 
urements that it is far from true that in general the intelligence 
of different animals is in direct proportion to their respective 
extents of cerebral surface. If their absolute extents of surface 
be taken, the rule is manifestly untrue in many instances; and it 
is not more true if the extent of surface in proportion to the vol¬ 
ume of the brain be regarded ; for the human brain has less 
superficial extent in proportion to its volume than that of many 
iuferior mammalia: its volume is two and a half times as 
great in proportion to its surface, as it is in the rabbit, for 
example. 

Nor is this all. The researches of M. Camille Darestef estab¬ 
lish beyond dispute that the number and depth of the convolu¬ 
tions bear no direct relation to the development of intelligence ; 
whereas they do bear a direct relation to the size of the animal; 
so that, given the size of the animal in any genus, he can predict 
the degree of convoluted development; or given the convolutions, 
he can predict the size : “toutes les especes a cerveau lisse ont 
une petite taille; toutes les especes a circonvolutions nombreuses 
et compliqudes sont, au contraire, de gran detaille.” Further, I 
am informed by Professor Owen that the grampus has convolu¬ 
tions deeper and more complicated than those of man. From all 
which facts it becomes evident that the phrenological basis is so 
far from being in accordance with the present state of our know¬ 
ledge of the nervous system as to require complete revision. 

Phrenology has another important point to determine, namely, 
the relation of the size of the brain to mental power. Is the size 
of the brain to betaken absolutely, and its functional activity in 


* Gazette Medicate, 19 April, 1845. Paget: Report on, the Progress of Anat¬ 
omy, in British and Foreign Med. Rev. July, 1846. 
f Annatesdes Sciences Naturelles , 8'- serie, xvii. 30, and 4 C serie, i. 73. 



PHRENOLOGY AS A SCIENCE. 


767 


tlie purely mental direction to be measured by its absolute bulk ? 
A galvanic battery of fifty plates is five times as powerful as a bat¬ 
tery of ten plates; a cord of twenty threads is five times as strong 
as a cord of four threads, other things equal; and, in like manner, 
we should expect that a brain of fifty ounces would be twice as 
powerful as one of twenty-five ounces (the limits are really greater 
than these). Nevertheless, we find no such absolute and constant 
relation between size and mental power as would justify the 
phrenological position; the weight of the human brain being 
about three pounds; the weight of the whale’s brain being five 
pounds; the weight of the elephant’s between eight and ten 
pounds. If therefore the function of the brain be solely or mainly 
that of mental manifestation, and if size be the measure of 
power, the whale and the elephant ought to surpass man, as a 
Newton surpasses an idiot. If on the contrary the brain, as a 
nervous centre, has other functions besides that of mental mani¬ 
festation, these discrepancies can be explained, although Phrenol¬ 
ogy must take these other functions into account.* 

It is true that phrenologists have been aware of these discrep¬ 
ancies; and, unable to admit the whale and elephant as superior 
to man, they have met the objection by saying the size must be 
estimated relatively, not absolutely. Compared with the weight 
of his body, the brain of man is certainly heavier than the brains 
of most animals, including the whale and the elephant; and this 
fact seems to restore Phrenology to its cheerfulness on the sub¬ 
ject ; but the fact does not hold good of monkeys, the smaller 
apes, many species of birds, and some rodents. This is the dilem¬ 
ma : either the ratio of mental power depends on the absolute 
size of the brain, and in this case the elephant will be thrice 
as intelligent as man; or it depends on the relative size of the 
brain compared with the body, and in this case man will be less 
intelligent than a monkey or a rat, although more intelligent than 


* I have sketched the relations of the brain to the body in the paper 
before referred to, on Dwarfs and Giants. See Frazer's Mag ., Sept. 1856, 

p. 289. 



768 


PHRENOLOGY. 


the elephant. Moreover, if relative size is the basis taken, phre¬ 
nologists would be bound to compare in each case the weight of 
the brain with the weight of the body, before they could establish 
a conclusion ; and this is obviously impracticable. I have stated 
the dilemma; but having stated it, I will add that although phre¬ 
nologists attach importance to questions of weight of the brain, 
there seems to me a great fallacy involved in such estimates. Intel¬ 
ligence is not to be measured by the balance. Weight is no index 
of cerebral activity, nor of the special directions of the activity. 

Enough has been said to show that Phrenology, so far from at 
present being the only true physiological explanation of the ner¬ 
vous system, is in so chaotic and unstable a position with respect 
to its basis, as to need thorough revision; and until some 
phrenologist shall arise who, following up the impulsion given by 
Gall, can once more place the doctrine on a level with the science 
of the age, all men of science must be expected to slight the pre¬ 
tensions of Phrenology as a psychological system, whatever it may 
hereafter become. That a new Gall will some day arise I have 
little doubt, for I am convinced that Psychology must be establish¬ 
ed on a physiological basis. Meanwhile, for the purposes of this 
History, it suffices to have indicated the nature of Gall’s innova¬ 
tion, and the course of inquiry he opened. As a psychological clas¬ 
sification, the one now adopted in Phrenology can only be regarded 
in the light of a tentative sketch; superior indeed to those which 
preceded it,but one which daily experience shows to be insufficient. 

To conclude this chapter, we may point to Gall as having 
formed an epoch in the History of Philosophy by inaugurating 
a new Method. From the time when Philosophy itself became 
reduced to a question of Psychology, in order that a basis might, 
if possible, be laid, the efforts of men were variously directed, 
and all ended in skepticism and dissatisfaction, because a true 
psychological Method did not guide them. The history of the 
tentatives towards a true Method has been sketched in various 
chapters of this volume, and with Gall that Method may be said 
to have finally settled its fundamental principles. 


ELEVENTH EPOCH. 

PHILOSOPHY FINALLY RELINQUISHING ITS PLACE IN FAVOR 

OF POSITIVE SCIENCE. 


CHAPTER I. 

ECLECTICISM. 

“Nous ne croyons pas les choses parce qu’elles sont vraies,” 
says Pascal, “ mais nous les croyons vraies parce que nous les 
aimons.” This is one ever-present obstacle to the progress of 
mankind. We do not love truth because it is true, but because 
it seems to countenance other opinions which we believe necessary 
to our well-being. Only a few philosophic minds have strength 
enough to detach their eyes from consequences, and concentrate 
all their attention on Truth; and these few can onlv do so in 
virtue of their steadfast conviction that Truth can never be really 
injurious, whatever phantoms apprehensive ignorance may con¬ 
jure up around it. 

The reaction against the Philosophy of the eighteenth century 
was not a reaction against a doctrine proved to be incompetent, 
but against a doctrine believed to be the source of frightful im¬ 
morality. The reaction was vigorous because it was animated 
by the horror which agitated Europe at the hideous excesses of 
the French Revolution. Associated in men’s minds with the 
saturnalia of the Terror, the philosophical opinions of Condillac, 
Diderot, and Cabanis were held responsible for the crimes of the 
Convention; and what might be true in those opinions was 
0uno- aside with what was false, without discrimination, without 

O 1 ' 



770 


ECLECTICISM. 


analysis, in fierce impetuous disgust. Every opinion which had 
what was called “a taint of materialism,” or seemed to point iu 
that direction, was denounced as an opinion necessarily leading 
to the destruction of all Religion, Morality, and Government. 
Every opinion which seemed to point in the direction of spirit¬ 
ualism w r as eagerly welcomed, promulgated, and lauded; not 
because it was demonstrably true, but because it was supposed 
capable of preserving social order. And indeed when, looking 
back upon those times, w r e contemplate the misery and anarchy 
which disgraced what was an inevitable movement, and dimmed 
what was really noble in the movement, we can understand how 
generous hearts and minds, fluctuating in perplexity, did instinct¬ 
ively revolt not only against the Revolution, but against all the 
principles which were ever invoked by the revolutionists. Look¬ 
ing at the matter from this distance, we can see clearly enough 
that “ materialism” had really no more to do with the Revolu¬ 
tion than Christianity had to do with the hideous scenes in 
which the Anabaptists were actors; but we can understand how 
indelible was the association of Revolution and materialism in 
the minds of that generation. 

So profoundly influential has this association been, that a cel¬ 
ebrated surgeon of our own day perilled his position by advo¬ 
cating an opinion, now universally accepted, but then generally 
shuddered at; namely, that the brain is the “organ” of the 
mind. He had to retract that opinion, which the pious Hartley 
and many others had advanced without offence. He had to 
retract it, not because it was scientifically untenable, but because 
it was declared to be morally dangerous. It was “ materialism,” 
and materialism “led” to the destruction of all morality. Al¬ 
though every man now believes the brain to be veritably the 
organ of the mind, the word materialism is still used as a bug¬ 
bear. Instead of being refuted as false, it is by many denounced 
as dangerous. I believe the philosophy of the eighteenth cen¬ 
tury to be dangerous because false ; the writers to whom I allude 
declare it false because they believe it dangerous. I believe it 


t 


ECLECTICISM. 


771 


also to be in many respects healthful, because in many respects 
true; and it would be uncandid in me not to declare that if 1 
oppose the eighteenth century doctrine, I believe the spiritualism 
which denounces it is even more incomplete as a philosophy, and 
consequently even more dangerous in its influence. 

The history of the reaction in France is very instructive, but 
it would require more space than can here be given adequately 
to narrate the story.* Four streams of influence converged into 
one, all starting from the same source, namely, horror at the 
revolutionary excesses. The Catholics, with the great Joseph 
de Maistre and M. de Bonald at their head, appealed to the relig¬ 
ious sentiments; the Royalists, with Chateaubriand and Madame 
de Stael, appealed to the monarchical and literary sentiments; 
the metaphysicians, with Laromiguiere and Maine de Brian, and 
the moralists with Royer-Collard, one and all attacked the weak 
points of Sensationalism, and prepared the way for the enthusi¬ 
astic reception of the Scotch and German philosophies. A 
glance at almost any of these writers will suffice to convince the 
student that their main purpose is to defend morality and order, 
which they believe to be necessarily imperilled by the philosophy 
they attack. The appeals to the prejudices and sentiments are 
abiding. Eloquence is made to supply the deficiencies of argu¬ 
ment; emotion takes the place of demonstration. The hearer 
is charmed, roused, dazzled, He learns to associate all the nobler 
sentiments with spiritualistic doctrines, and all grovelling ideas 
with materialistic doctrines; till the one school becomes insep¬ 
arably linked in his mind with emotions of reverence for what- 
3 ver is lofty, profound, and noble, and the other with emotions 
of contempt for whatever is shallow and unworthy. The leaders 
of the reaction were men of splendid talents, and their work was 
eminently successful. But now that the heats of controversy 
have cooled, and all these debates have become historical, we- 

* The reader may consult on this topic Damiron, Essai sur VHistoire de la 
Philosoph ie en France an XIXieme Siecle; and Taine, Les Philo&ojohes Fran* 
Qais du XIXieme Siecle. 

52 




772 


ECLECTICISM. 

who look at them from a distance can find in them no philosoph¬ 
ical progress, no new elements added which could assist the evo¬ 
lution of Philosophy and form a broader basis for future monu¬ 
ments. In political and literary History these attempts would 
claim a conspicuous position; in the History of Philosophy they 
deserve mention only as having made mankind aware of the 
limited nature of the eighteenth century philosophy, and its ex¬ 
traordinary lacunce. Their office was critical, and has been 
fulfilled. 

One doctrine, and one alone, emerged from these attempts, 
and held for some time the position of a school. It made a 
noise in its day, but even the echoes have now become almost 
inaudible, for a feebler doctrine scarcely ever obtained acquies¬ 
cence. We must, nevertheless, bestow a few sentences on it to 
make our history complete. Eclecticism is dead, but it produced 
some good results, if only by the impetus it gave to historical 
research, and by the confirmation it gave, in its very weakness, 
to the conclusion that an a priori solution of transcendental 
problems is impossible. For Eclecticism was the last product of 
philosophical speculation, the gathering together of all that phi¬ 
losophers had achieved, and the evolution from these separate 
achievements of one final doctrine, which final doctrine is itself 
rejected. 

Victor Cousin and Thomas Jouffroy are the chiefs of this 
school, one a brilliant rhetorician utterly destitute of originality, 
the other a sincere thinker, whose merits have been thrown into 
the shade by his brilliant colleague. As a man of letters, M. 
Cousin deserves the respect which attends his name, if we except 
llie more than questionable use which he has made of the labors 
of pupils and assistants without acknowledgment. However, 
our business is not with Cousin, but with Eclecticism. Royer- 
Collard introduced the principles of the Scotch school, to combat 
with them the principles of sensationalism. Reid and Stewart 
were translated by Jouffroy, explained and developed by Royer- 
Collard, Jouffroy, and Cousin. The talents of these professors, 


ECLECTICISM. 


aided by the tendency towards any reaction, made the Scotch 
philosophy dominant in France. But Victor Cousin’s restless 
activity led him to the study of Kant:—and the doctrines of the 
“ Konigsberg sage” were preached by him with the same ardor 
as that which he had formerly devoted to the Scotch. As soon 
as the Parisians began to know something of Kant, M. Cousin 
started off to Alexandria for a doctrine: he found one in Proclus. 
He edited Proclus; lectured on him; borrowed some of his 
ideas, and would have set him on the throne of Philosophy, had 
the public been willing. A trip to Germany in 1824 made him 
acquainted with the modern Proclus—Hegel. On his return to 
Paris he presented the public with as much of Hegel’s doc¬ 
trines as he could understand. His celebrated Eclecticism is 
nothing but a misconception of Hegel’s History of Philosophy, 
fenced round with several plausible arguments. 

All error, M. Cousin repeatedly enforces, is nothing but “ an 
incomplete view of the truth.” Upon this definition is based the 
proposition that “ All systems are incomplete views of the reality, 
set up for complete images of the reality.” The conclusion is 
obvious : “ All systems containing a mixture of truth and error 
have only to be brought together, and then the error would be 
eliminated by the mere juxtaposition of system with system. 
The truth or portion of the truth which is in one system would 
be assimilated with the portions of the truth which are in other 
systems; and thus the work would be easy enough.” 

Eclecticism, therefore, means the bringing together of all dis¬ 
covered truths eliminated from their accompanying errors ; and 
out of this body of truths a doctrine is to be elaborated. A great 
task ; but is it practicable ? The system is based on the defini¬ 
tion of error ; by that it must stand or fall. 

The definition appears to us altogether untenable. Error is 
sometimes an incomplete view of the truth ; but it is not ahoays: 
it is sometimes no view of the truth at all, but a mere divergence 
from it. When Newton constructed his theory of the laws of 
attraction, and interposed an ether as the medium through which 


774 


ECLECTICISM. 


they operated, he had an incomplete view of the truth. But 
when Descartes developed his theory of vortices, he was quite 
wide of the truth—he was altogether wrong. The phrase “ in¬ 
complete view” is indeed so vague, that men who sport with 
verbal subtleties may justify the theory of Descartes as an incom¬ 
plete view of the truth ; a very incomplete view. *A.t any rate 
no one will be disposed to assert that by the mere juxtaposition 
of Newton’s doctrine with that of Descartes he could in any way 
eliminate the error that is in both. 

If therefore all systems are not incomplete v.ews of the reality 
—if all systems do not contain certain portions of the truth—how 
is the eclectic to decide which systems are available for his pur¬ 
pose, which philosophies are to be juxtaposed ? This leads to the 
necessity of a criterium. M. Jouffroy tells us that it is an easy 
matter. "VVe have only to collect all the systems which have 
ever been produced, have them translated and arranged in their 
legitimate order, and the truths discovered by each will become 
organized in one doctrine. 

Without stopping to ask what is the legitimate order, and how 
we are to know it, the student is naturally anxious to learn by 
what criterium Eclecticism proposes to judge and separate truth 
from error in any system. The inquiry is pertinent. It is easy 
to bid us be careful in separating the wheat from the chaff, that 
we may garner it up in the storehouses of the world. Suppose 
the farmer does not know the wheat when he sees it, what crite¬ 
rium do you give him whereby he may judge wheat to be wheat, 
not chaff? None. The philosopher can only distinguish the 
truth in two ways: either he knows it already, and then he has 
what he is seeking ; or else he knows it by its relation to and 
accordance with those truths which he is already in possession 
of. That is to say, he has a criterium in his System : those 
views which range under it, he accepts as extensions of his 
knowledge ; those which range beyond its limits, he denies to be 
true. 

Suppose the eclectic places in juxtaposition the two great 


ECLECTICISM. 


775 


schools which have always divided the world, viz. that which 
declares experience to be the source of all knowledge ; and that 
which declares w'e have a great deal of our knowledge antece¬ 
dent to and independent of experience. Both of these systems 
he pronounces to be composed of truth and error. He assumes 
this; for a little consideration might tell him that it is utterly 
impossible both should be correct: experience either is or is not 
the sole fountain of knowledge. The difference is as decided as 
that respecting the motion of the earth, or the motion of the 
sun. Ptolemy and Copernicus: choose between them; any 
compromise is impossible, unless you wish to side with the Sizar 
who, when the question was put, “ Does the earth move round 
the sun, or the sun round the earth ?” replied, “ Sometimes one 
and sometimes the other.” He was an eclectic apparently. Let 
us however for a moment grant that the two schools of Psychol¬ 
ogy are both partly right and partly wrong; w T e then ask, What 
criterium has the eclectic wdiereby to distinguish error from 
truth ? He has none; the doctors are silent on the point. 

That men derive assistance from others, and that those who 
w r ent before us discovered many truths, all admit. And there 
can be no doubt that a juxtaposition and comparison of various 
doctrines would be of service. Eclecticism, therefore, as a sub¬ 
sidiary process is valuable ; and has always been practised. M. 
Cousin however converts this subsidiary process into a primary 
one, and dignifies it with the attributes of a Method. In the one 
sense it is simply that the inquirer consults the works of his pre¬ 
decessors, and selects from them all that he considers true : viz. 
such portions as confirm, extend, and illustrate his previous opin¬ 
ions ; these opinions constituting his criterium. Let the reader 
reflect on the pertinacity with which men refuse to admit views 
which to others are self-evident, because those views are or seem 
to be opposed to religion, or the reigning doctrine, and he will 
clearly enough see the nature of this criterium. The history of 
opinion is crowded with instances of it. M. Cousin however does 
not so understand Eclecticism. He says we should admit all 


776 


AUGUSTE COMTE. 


Bystems as containing some truths; and these truths separate 
themselves from errors by the mere process of juxtaposition^ 
somewhat in the manner, we presume, of chemical affinities.— 
A theory that needs, one would think, no further refutation than 
a simple statement of its principles. 

Havinor dismissed Eclecticism as a Method, we need not waste 

u 7 

time in examining M. Cousins various and constantly shifting 
opinions. It is enough that he himself has relinquished them. 
It is enough that France and Europe reject them. 

This final' doctrine then fares no better than the doctrines 
which preceded it. Philosophy is still in search of its Method 
and its basis; and wearied out by so many fruitless efforts, it 
finally gives up the quest, and allows itself to be absorbed by 
Science. The dogmatic assertion of this position is to be found 
in Auguste Comte. 


CHAPTER II. 

AUGUSTE COMTE. 

As I have devoted a whole volume to the exposition of Comte’s 
philosophy,* it will be unnecessary to enter into a detailed exposi¬ 
tion here; and the small space at disposal may be occupied with 
a general indication of his historical position and the nature of 
his Method. 

In the course of this History one fact has been gradually as¬ 
suming more and more distinctness, as the various failures to 
establish any solid basis for Philosophy have been brought before 
us : namely, that mankind has, from the origin of speculative in¬ 
quiry, been pursuing a false Method. Gradually, as men became 
<tware of this fact, they withdrew themselves more and more from 
Philosophy, and devoted their speculative energy to Science. 


* Comte' 1 s Philosophy of the Sciences, 1S58 (Bolin’s Scientific Library, vol. 20). 





AUGUSTE COMTE. 


Even those who, reluctant to relinquish the high aims of Philoso- 
phy, tried by changes of direction to discover new and more pros¬ 
perous issues, and hoped in reinvestigating the nature of human 
knowledge to disclose some yet unsuspected path which might 
lead them to the goal, found Psychology itself forced to range 
beside the positive sciences, and to adopt tne one Method which 
hitherto had alone been fruitful in results. And while from all 
directions a convergence towards Science was silently taking 
place, there arose a powerful thinker who proclaimed the in¬ 
herent necessity of this convergence, and the necessity under 
which Philosophy now was of definitively relinquishing its 
ancient claims in favor of the positive Method, which could lead 
men to a general doctrine such as might once more establish har¬ 
mony in their endeavors, and give to Europe an invigorating faith. 

In the Cours de Philosophic Positive, 6 vols., 1830-42, Au¬ 
guste Comte did for the nineteenth century what Bacon did for 
the seventeenth: he resumed in one vast work the various re¬ 
forming tendencies of preceding ages. Whoever casts his 
glance at the present intellectual state of Europe, will perceive a 
great want of unity , caused by the absence of any one doctrine, 
general enough to embrace every variety of ideas, and positive 
enough to carry with it irresistible conviction. Look at the state 
of Peligion:—Catholicism and Protestantism make one great 
division; but within the sphere of each we see numerous subdi¬ 
visions ; the variety of sects is daily increasing. Each Peligion 
has remarkable men amongst its members; but each refuses to 
admit the doctrines of the others. There is, in fact, no one gen¬ 
eral doctrine capable of embracing Catholics, Protestants, Mo¬ 
hammedans, and their subdivisions. Look also at the state of 
Philosophy. There is no one system universally accepted ; there 
are as many philosophies as there are speculative nations, almost 
as many as there are professors. The dogmas of Germany are 
held in England and Scotland as the dreams of alchemists; the 
Psychology of Scotland is laughed at in Germany, and neglected 
in England and France. Besides this general dissidence, we see, 


AUGUSTE COMTE 


rrs 

in France and Germany at least, great opposition between Re¬ 
ligion and Philosophy openly pronounced. This opposition is 
inevitable : it lies in the very nature of Philosophy ; and although, 
now as heretofore, many professors eagerly argue that the two 
are perfectly compatible and accordant, the discordance is, and 
always must be, apparent. 

With respect to general doctrines, then, we find the state of 
Europe to be this : religions opposed to religions ; philosophies 
opposed to philosophies; and Religion and Philosophy at war 
with each other. Such is the anarchy in the higher regions. 

In the positive sciences there is less dissidence, but there is the 
same absence of any general doctrine; each science is on a firm 
basis, and rapidly improves; but a Philosophy of Science is no¬ 
where to be found except in the work of M. Auguste Comte? 
which comes forward with the express purpose of supplying the 
deficiency. The speciality of most scientific men, and their in¬ 
capacity of either producing or accepting general ideas, has 
long been a matter of complaint; and this has been one great 
cause of the continuance of Philosophy: for men of speculative 
ability saw clearly enough that however exact each science 
/night be in itself, it could only form a part of Philosophy. 
Moreover, the evil of speciality is not confined to neglecting the 
whole for the sake of the parts ; it affects the very highest con¬ 
dition of Science, namely, its capability of instructing and direct¬ 
ing society. 

In the early ages of speculation, general views were eagerly 
sought and easily obtained. As Science became rich and com¬ 
plex in materials, various divisions took place; and one man 
cultivated one science, another man another. Even then general 
views were not absent. But as the tide rolled on, discovery suc¬ 
ceeding discovery, and new tracts of inquiry leading to vast 
wildernesses of undiscovered truth, it became necessary for one 
man to devote himself onlv to a small fraction of a science, which 
he pursued, leaving to others the task of bringing his researches 
under their general head. Such a minute division of labor was 


AUGUSTE COMTE. 


779 


necessary for the successful prosecution of minute and laborious 
researches; but it ended in making men of science regard only 
the individual parts of science; the construction of general doc¬ 
trines was left to philosophers. A fatal error ; for such doctrines 
could only be truly constructed out of the materials of Science 
and upon the Method of Science; whereas the philosophers were 
ignorant of Science—or only superficially acquainted with it—• 
and despised the Method. The JVatur-Philosophie of Schelling 
and Hegel is a sufficiently striking example of the results of such 
a procedure. 

We come then to this conclusion : in the present state of 
tilings the speculative domain is composed of two very different 
portions,—general ideas and positive sciences. The general ideas 
are powerless because they are not positive; the positive sciences 
are powerless because they are not general. The new Philosophy 
which, under the title of Positive, M. Comte proposes to create 
—and the basis of which he has himself laid—is destined to put 
an end to this anarchy, by presenting a doctrine which is posi¬ 
tive, because elaborated from the sciences, and yet possessing all 
the desired generality of metaphysical doctrines, without possess¬ 
ing their vagueness, instability, and inapplicability. 

Besides this general aim of the new “ Great Installation,” we 
have to notice three initial conceptions which Comte advances, 
two of which relate to Method, and one to History. 

The first is the conception of Philosophy, which, in its widest 
sense, is identical with Science; consequently one Method must 
be followed in all investigations, whether the investigations relate 
to Physics, to Psychology, to Ethics, or to Politics. Every spe¬ 
cial science, no matter what its subject-matter, is but a branch of 
the one Positive Philosophy. 

The second conception is that of Classification, whereby all 
the special sciences will assume their proper place in the hie¬ 
rarchy of Science, the simpler being studied first, and thus becom¬ 
ing instruments for the better prosecution of those which suc¬ 
ceed. Thus Mathematics becomes the instrument of Astronomy 


780 


AUGUSTE COMTE. 


and Physics; Chemistry becomes the instrument of Biology, 
and Biology becomes the instrument of Sociology. 

The third conception is that of the fundamental law of evolu 
tion. This conception sets forth that Humanity has three stages, 
the Theological, the Metaphysical, and the Positive. Whether 
we examine the history of nations, of individuals, or of special 
sciences, we find that speculation always commences with super¬ 
natural explanations, advances to metaphysical explanations, and 
finally reposes in positive explanations. The first is the neces¬ 
sary point of departure taken by human intelligence ; the second 
is merely a stage of transition from the supernatural to the posi¬ 
tive ; and the third is the fixed and definite condition in which 
knowledge is alone capable of progressive development. 

In the Theological stage, the mind regards all effects as the 
productions of supernatural agents, whose intervention is the 
cause of all the apparent anomalies and irregularities. Nature is 
animated by supernatural beings. Every unusual phenomenon 
is a sign of the pleasure or displeasure of some being adored and 
propitiated as a God. The lowest condition of this stage is that 
of the savages, viz. Fetishism. The highest condition is when 
one being is substituted for many, as the cause of all phenomena. 

In the Metaphysical stage, which is only a modification of the 
former, but which is important as a transitional stage, the super¬ 
natural agents give place to abstract forces (personified abstrac¬ 
tions) supposed to inhere in the various substances, and capable 
themselves of engendering phenomena. The highest condition 
of this stage is when all these forces are brought under one gen¬ 
eral force named Nature. 

In the Positive stage, the mind, convinced of the futility of all 
inquiry into causes and essences, applies itself to the observation 
and classification of laws which regulate effects : that is to say, 
the invariable relations of succession and similitude which all 
things bear to each other. The highest condition of this stage 
would be, to be able to represent all phenomena as the various 
particulars of one general view. 


AUGUSTE COMTE. 


7S1 


llius, in Astronomy we may trace the gradual evolution from 
Apollo and his chariot, through the Pythagorean ideas of Num¬ 
bers, Harmonies, and so many other metaphysical abstractions, 
to the firm basis on which it is now settled: the law of gravita¬ 
tion. So that it is by geometry and dynamics we hope to wrest 
their secret from the spheres; not by the propitiation of a Sun- 
god. Thus also in Physics, where thunder was the intervention 
ot Jove, and where Metaphysics had introduced Nature’s “hor¬ 
ror of a void,” Science seeks the laws of gravitation, electricity, 
light, etc. 

In the work already mentioned I have illustrated this law in 
many ways. The reader is advised however to seek in Comte’s 
own volumes for a complete verification of the law, and its im¬ 
portance in all historical inquiry.* A few sentences will suffice 
to indicate the nature of the three stages:—All are agreed, in 
these days, that real knowledge must be founded on the observa¬ 
tion of facts. But no science could have its origin in simple ob¬ 
servation ; for if, on the one hand, all positive theories must be 
founded on observation, so, on the other, it is equally necessary 
to have some sort of theory before we address ourselves to the 
task of steady observation. If, in contemplating phenomena, we 
do not connect them with some principle, it would not only be 
impossible for us to combine our isolated observations, and con¬ 
sequently to draw any benefit from them; but we should also 
be unable even to retain them, and most frequently the impor¬ 
tant facts would remain unperceived. We are consequently 
forced to theorize. A theory is necessary to observation, and a 
correct theory to correct observation. 

This double necessity imposed upon the mind—of observation 
for the formation of a theory, and of a theory for the practice of 
observation—would have caused it to move in a circle, if nature 
had not fortunately provided an outlet in the spontaneous activ- 

* This advice can the more easily be followed now that a translated con¬ 
densation of the j Positive Philosophy by Harriet Martineau, has placed tho 
work within reach of English readers. 



AtJGUSTE COMTE. 


rs 2 

ity of tlie mind. This activity causes it to begin by assuming a 
cause, 'which it seeks out of nature, i. e. a supernatural cause. 
As man is conscious that he acts according as he wills, so he nat¬ 
urally concludes that every thing acts in accordance with some 
superior will. Hence Fetishism, which is nothing but the endow¬ 
ment of inanimate things with life and volition. This is the 
logical necessity for the supernatural stage : the mind com¬ 
mences with the unknowable ; it has first to learn its impotence, 
to learn the limits of its range, before it can content itself with 
the know able. 

The metaphysical stage is equally important as the transitive 
stage. The supernatural and positive stages are so widely op¬ 
posed that they require intermediate notions to bridge over the 
chasm. In substituting an entity inseparable from phenomena 
for a supernatural agent , through whose will these phenomena 
were produced, the mind became habituated to consider only the 
phenomena themselves. This was a most important condition. 
The result was, that the ideas of these metaphysical entities 
gradually faded, and were lost in the mere abstract names of the 
phenomena. 

The positive stage was now possible. The mind having ceased 
to interpose either supernatural agents or metaphysical entities 
between the phenomena and their production, attended solely 
to the phenomena themselves. These it reduced to laws ; in 
other words, it arranged them according to their invariable re¬ 
lations of similitude and succession. The search after essences 
and causes was renounced. The 'pretension to absolute knowl¬ 
edge was set aside. The discovery of laws became the great ob¬ 
ject of mankind. 

Remember that although every branch of knowledge must 
pass through these three stages, in obedience to the law of evo¬ 
lution, nevertheless the progress is not strictly chronological. 
Some sciences are more rapid in their evolution than others; 
some individuals pass through these evolutions more quickly than 
others ; so also of nations. The present intellectual anarchy re- 


AUGUSTE COMTE. 


783 


suits from that difference; some sciences being in the positive, 
some in the supernatural, and some in the metaphysical stage * 
and this is further to be subdivided into individual differences; 
for in a science which, on the whole, may fairly be admitted as 
being positive, there will be found some cultivators still in the 
metaphysical stage. Astronomy is now in so positive a condi¬ 
tion, that we need nothing but the laws of dynamics and gravi¬ 
tation to explain all celestial phenomena; and this explanation 
we know to be correct, as far as any thing can be known, because 
we can predict the return of a comet with the nicest accuracy, 
or can enable the mariner to discover his latitude and find his 
way amidst the “ waste of waters.” This is a positive science. 
But so far is meteorology from such a condition, that prayers for 
dry or rainy weather are still offered up in churches; whereas if 
once the laws of these phenomena were traced, there would no 
more be prayers for rain than for the sun to rise at midnight. 
Remark also, that while in the present day no natural philoso¬ 
pher is unwise enough to busy himself with the attempt to dis¬ 
cover the cause of attraction, thousands are busy in the attempt 
to discover the cause of life and the essence of mind. This differ¬ 
ence characterizes positive and metaphysical sciences. The one 
is content with a general fact, that “ attraction is directly as the 
mass and inversely as the square of the distancethis being 
sufficient for all scientific purposes, because enabling us to pre¬ 
dict with unerring certainty the results of that operation. The 
metaphysician or metaphysical physiologist, on the contrary, is 
more occupied with guessing at the causes of life, than in observ¬ 
ing and classifying vital phenomena with a view to detect their 
laws of operation. First he guesses it to be what he calls a 
“ vital principle”—a mysterious entity residing in the frame, and 
capable of engendering phenomena. He then proceeds to guess 
at the nature or essence of this principle, and pronounces it 
“ electricity,” or “ nervous fluid,” or “ chemical affinity.” Thus 
he heaps hypothesis upon hypothesis, and clouds tie subject from 
his view. 


784 


AUGUSTE COMTE. 


The more closely we examine the present condition of the sci 
ences, the more we shall be struck with the anarchy above indi¬ 
cated. We shall find one science (Physics) in a perfectly posi¬ 
tive stage, another (Biology) in the metaphysical stage, a third 
(Sociology) in the supernatural stage. Nor is this all. The 
same varieties will be found to co-exist in the same individual 
mind. The same man who in Physics may be said to have ar¬ 
rived at the positive stage, and recognizes no other object of in¬ 
quiry than the laws of phenomena, will be found still a slave to 
the metaphysical stage in Biology, and endeavoring to detect the 
cause of life; and so little emancipated from the supernatural 
stage in Sociology, that if you talk to him of the possibility of a 
science of history, or a social science, he will laugh at you as 
a “ tlieorizer.” The present condition of Science, therefore, ex¬ 
hibits three Methods instead of one: hence the anarchy. To 
remedy the evil all differences must cease : one Method must 
preside. Auguste Comte was the first to point out the fact, and 
to suggest the cure ; and it will render his name immortal. So 
long as the supernatural explanation of phenomena was univer¬ 
sally accepted, so long was there unity of thought, because one 
general principle was applied to all facts. The same may be 
said of the metaphysical stage, though in a less degree, because 
it was never universally accepted ; it was in advance of the 
supernatural, but before it could attain universal recognition, the 
positive stage had already begun. When the positive Method is 
universally accepted—and the day we hope is not far distant, at 
least among the elite of humanity—then shall we again have 
unity of thought, then shall we again have one general doctrine, 
powerful because general. That the positive Method is the only 
Method adapted to human capacity, the only one on which truth 
can be found, is easily proved : on it alone can prevision of phe¬ 
nomena depend. Prevision is the characteristic and the test of 
knowledge, if we can predict certain results and if they occur 
as we predicted, then are we assured that our knowledge is cor¬ 
rect. If the wind blows according to the will of Boreas, we may. 


AUGUSTE COMTE. 


785 


indeed, propitiate his favor, but we cannot calculate upon it. We 
can have no certain knowledge whether the wind will blow or 
not. If, on the other hand, it is subject to laws, like every thing 
else, once discover these laws, and men will predict concerning 
it as they predict concerning other matters. “Even the wind 
and rain,” to use the language of one of our clearest writers, 
“ which in common speech are the types of uncertainty and 
change, obey laws as fixed as those of the sun and moon ; and 
already, as regards many parts of the earth, man can foretell 
them without fear of being deceived. He plans his voyages to 
suit the coming monsoons, and prepares against the floods of the 
rainy season.”* If one other argument be needed, we would 
simply refer to the gradual and progressive improvement which 
has always taken place in every department of inquiry conduct¬ 
ed upon the positive Method—and with a success in exact pro¬ 
portion to its rigorous employment of that Method—contrasted 
with the circular movement of Philosophy, which is just as far 
from a solution of any one of its problems as it was five thousand 
years ago; the only truths that it can be said to have acquired 
are a few psychological truths, and these it owes to the positive 
Method. So little has the Philosophy of Science been studied, 
that Comte’s admirable classification of the fundamental sciences 
has not only been regarded as a merely ingenious speculation, 
but many writers have said that it was not different from other 
classifications which had been proposed, among which Hegel’s 
has been mentioned. But the resemblance is only superficial. 
A few sentences must suffice here to indicate the principle on 
which it is based :—The problem to be solved is the dependence 
of the sciences upon each other. This dependence can only re¬ 
sult from that of the corresponding phenomena. In considering 
these, it is easy to class them in a small number of natural cate¬ 
gories, so disposed that the rational study of each successive 
category should be founded on the knowledge of the principal 


* Dr. Arnott’s Elements of Physics, fifth edition, vol. i. p. 13. 




78G 


AUGUSTE COMTE. 


laws of the preceding category. The order of their dependence 
is determined by the degree of simplicity or generality of the 
phenomena. It is evident that the most simple phenomena— 
those which are least mixed up with others—are the most gen¬ 
eral ; for that which is observed in the greatest number of circum¬ 
stances is the most independent of the various particulars of 
those circumstances. The principle therefore to be adopted is 
this : we must commence with the study of the most simple or 
general phenomena, and proceed successively to the most com¬ 
plex and particular. 

A distinction is to be made between the two classes of pheno¬ 
mena which are manifested by inorganized bodies and by organ¬ 
ized bodies. The phenomena of the latter are obviously more 
complex than those of the former : they greatly depend upon in- 
organized bodies, while these in no way depend upon organized 
bodies. Organized bodies manifest all the phenomena of the in- 
organized, whether chemical or mechanical; but they also mani¬ 
fest the phenomena named vital, which are never manifested by 
inorganized bodies. 

In the study of inorganic Physics we commence by separating 
the general phenomena of the universe from the less general ter¬ 
restrial phenomena. Thus we have, first, celestial Physics , or 
Astronomy, whether geometrical or mechanical; secondly, ter¬ 
restrial Physics. The phenomena of Astronomy being the most 
general, the most simple, and the most abstract of all, we must 
begin our study with them. Their laws influence all other ter¬ 
restrial phenomena, of which they are essentially independent. 
In all terrestrial Physics universal gravitation is a condition; 
and so the simple movement of the body, if we would consider 
all the determining conditions, is a subject of greater complexity 
than any astronomical question. 

Terrestrial Physics is also divided into two classes : Physics 
and Chemistry. Chemistry, rightly conceived, presupposes a 
knowledge of Physics : for all chemical phenomena are more 
complex than those of Physics, and depend on them in great part * 


AUGU&TE COMTE. 


787 


whereas they have no influence on physical phenomena. All 
chemical action is subject to the influence of weight, heat, etc., 
and must therefore be treated after them. 

Organic Physics requires a similar division into Biology and 
Sociology. The phenomena relating to mankind are obviously 
more complex than those relating to the individual man, and 
depend upon them. In all social questions we see in operation 
the physiological laws of man; and we see also something pe¬ 
culiar, not physiological, which modifies the effects of these laws, 
and which results from the action of individuals on each other, 
curiously complicated by the action of each generation on its suc¬ 
cessor. It would be manifestly as impossible to treat the study 
of the collective species as a pure deduction from the study of 
the individual, as it would be to treat Physiology as a pure de¬ 
duction from Chemistry. 

The Positive Philosophy therefore resolves itself into five fun¬ 
damental sciences, of which the succession is determined by a 
necessary and invariable subordination founded on a comparison 
of corresponding phenomena. The first (Astronomy) considers 
the most general, simple, and abstract phenomena—those far¬ 
thest removed from humanity: they influence all others, but are 
not influenced by them. The last (Sociology) considers the 
most particular, complex, and concrete phenomena—those most 
directly interesting to man : they depend more or less upon all 
the preceding classes, without exercising on the latter the slight¬ 
est influence. Between these two extremes the degrees of spe¬ 
ciality and of complication of phenomena gradually augment 
according to their successive independence. 

The foundation of a comprehensive Method is the great 
achievement of Comte, as it was of Bacon, and the influence he 
has exercised, and must continue to exercise, will be almost ex¬ 
clusively in that direction. Over his subsequent efforts to found 
a social doctrine, and to become the founder of a new religion, 
let us draw the veil. They are unfortunate attempts which re¬ 
mind us of Bacon’s scientific investigations; and, in the minds o 
53 


788 


CONCLUSION. 


many, these unfortunate attempts will create a prejudice against 
what is truly grand in his philosophic career. In the Cours dc 
Philosophic Positive we have the grandest, because on the whole 
the truest, system which Philosophy has yet produced ; nor 
should any differences, which must inevitably arise on points of 
detail, make us forget the greatness of the achievement and the 
debt we owe to the lonely thinker who wrought out this system. 


CONCLUSION. 

Modern Philosophy opens with a Method ; and ends with a 
Method; and in each case this method leads to positive Science, 
and sets Metaphysics aside. Within these limits we have wit¬ 
nessed various efforts to solve the problems of Philosophy ; and 
all those efforts have ended in skepticism. 

There are two characteristics of Modern Philosophy which 
may here be briefly touched on. The first is the progressive 
development of Science, which in ancient speculations occupied 
the subordinate rank, and which now occupies the highest. The 
second is the reproduction in Philosophy of all the questions 
which agitated the Greeks, which also pass through a similar 
course of development: not only are the questions similar, but 
their evolutions are so. 

After the Eleatics had vexed the problems of Existence to no 
purpose, there came Democritus, Anaxagoras, Plato, and Aris¬ 
totle, who endeavored to settle the problems of the nature and 
origin of human knowledge. So, in modern times, after Des¬ 
cartes and Spinoza, came Hobbes, Locke, Leibnitz, Reid, and 
Kant. The ancient researches into the origin of knowledge 
ended in the Skeptics, the Stoics, and the New Academy : that 
is to say, in Skepticism, Common Sense, and Skepticism again. 
The modern researches ended in Berkeley, Hume, Reid, and 
Kant: that is, in Idealism, Skepticism, Common Sense, and 



CONCLUSION. 


789 


Skepticism again. These inquiries terminating thus fruitlessly, 
a new and desperate spring was made in Alexandria: reason 
was given up for ecstasy; Philosophy merged itself in Religion. 
In Germany a similar spectacle presents itself: Schelling identi¬ 
fied Philosophy with Religion. Thus has Philosophy completed 
ts circle, and we are left in this nineteenth century precisely at 
the same point at which we were in the fifth. 

Observe, however—and the fact is full of significance—how, 
in the course of speculation, those questions which were suscepti¬ 
ble of positive treatment, gradually acquired strength and devel¬ 
opment. If we are as far removed from a solution of any onto¬ 
logical problem as we were in the days of Proclus, -we are not 
nearly so ignorant of the laws of mental operation. Psychology 
is not a mature-science yet; but it boasts of some indisputable 
truths. Although much remains to do, much also has been 
done ; and whatever be the ultimate results of the new Method, 
it is satisfactory to feel that w r e have at least escaped from the 
vicious circle of verbal quibbling and logomachy, and are advan¬ 
cing on a straight road, every step bringing us nearer to positive 
knowledge, every addition being that of inalienable truth. 

Modern philosophy staked its pretensions on the one ques¬ 
tion : Have we any ideas independent of experience ? This was 
asking, in other words, Have we any organon of Philosophy ? 

The answer always ends in a negative. If any one, therefore, 
remain unshaken by the accumulated proofs this History affords 
of the impossibility of Philosophy, let him distinctly bear in 
mind that the first problem he must solve is, Have we ideas in¬ 
dependent of experience ? Let him solve that ere he begins tc 
peculate. 


THE END. 













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INDEX. 

■-+- 


Abelard, his character, birth, de¬ 
scent, studies, 346 ; love of dia¬ 
lectics, taste for notoriety, personal 
appearance, triumph over his mas¬ 
ter, origin of his misfortunes, 348 ; 
establishes a school of philosophy, 
his debate with Champeaux, 349 ; 
his brilliant career, intrigue with 
Heloise, 350-355 ; becomes a monk, 
founds the convent of the Para¬ 
clete, his philosophy and contribu¬ 


tions to the deve 
lation, 355; pecu 
trine, 357-359 ; o 


opment of specu- 
iarity of his doc- 
Dject of his work 


Introductio ad Theologiam , his trea¬ 
tise Sic et Non, 359. 

Academy, the New, difference be¬ 
tween the skepticism of the New 
Academicians and that of the Pyr- 
rhonists, 293 ; its derivation from 
Plato explained, 296. 

Academicians, the New, problem re¬ 
specting perception presented by 
them, 298-304. 

Alcibiades, his description of Socra¬ 
tes, 123. 


Algazzali: birth, parentage, studies, 
profession, 363; resemblance be¬ 
tween him and Descartes, 363; his 
skepticism, 364; his examination 
of doctrines held by the faithful, 
366 ; his career and endeavors to 
attain the ecstatic state, 367 ; his 
attempts to prove the existence of 
prophetism, 369. 

Alexandrian schools, the, 307; schools 
of philosophy formed at Alexandria, 
308 ; illustrious men assembled 
there, 309 ; direction given *o the 
mind by the Alexandrian school, 
313; in what its originality con¬ 
sists, its dialectics, 315; its theories 
of inspiration, 319 ; the Alexandrian 
Trinity, 320-324; similarity of the 
Alexandrian Trinity to that of Spi¬ 
noza, 326 ; aim of the Alexandrian 
school, 333 : its termination in Pro- 


elus, 836. 


Ameinias, his statement respecting 
Parmenides, 49. 

Anaximander, his birth, inventions 
ascribed to him, 10 ; astronomical 
and mathematical knowledge, lead¬ 
er of a colony to Apollonia, resi¬ 
dence at the court of Polycrates, 
doctrines and speculations, 11; his 
distinction between finite things 
and the Infinite All, 13 ; his specu¬ 
lations wholly deductive, 14; his 
physical speculations, 15; harmony 
between him and Pythagoras, 83. 

Anaximenes, doctrines of, a develop ■ 
ment of those of Thales, his birth¬ 
place, his theory respecting air, 6; 
liis doctrine an advance on Thales, 7. 

Anaxagoras: birth, patrimony, char¬ 
acter, passion for philosophy, and 
residence at Athens, 71; his pov¬ 
erty, career as a teacher, pupils, 
accusation, banishment, death, 72; 
his philosophy, 72; leading doc¬ 
trines, 74; cosmology, 75; his re¬ 
jection of Fate and Chance, 76; 
Plato’s objection to him, 78 ; his 
notion respecting Intelligence, 80; 
mistakes made by him, inapplica¬ 
bility of the title Eclectic to him, 82; 
admission of both Sense and Kea- 
6on into his system, 83. 

Antisthenes, his life, teachers, sys¬ 
tem, 177 ; his manners and gloomy 
temper, school founded by him,178. 

Arabians, two great epochs in the in¬ 
tellectual development of the, 369 ; 
Arabian philosophy, 361 ; Arabian 
philosophers, their familiarity with 
Greek writers, 362; obligations of 
Europe to, 370. 

Arcesilaus: birth, studies, promotion 
to the academic chair, character, 
death, 294 ; his doctrine of a acata¬ 
lepsy, 297. 

Archytas and Timaeus, works attrib¬ 
uted to them, spurious, 24. 

Aristippus, founder of the Cyrenaic 
school; his acquaintance with Soc- 





792 


INDEX. 


rates, 173; residence at Corinth; 
disposition and character, return 
to Cyrene, 174; his philosophy, a 
precursor of Epicureaniim, its re¬ 
lation to Socrates, 175; his doc¬ 
trine of pleasure, 177. 

Aristotle : birth, origin, 241; educa¬ 
tion, visit to Athens, 242; writes 
his History of Animals, 243; founds 
th’e school of the Peripatetics, in¬ 
fluence of his writings, 244; nature 
of his method, 246 ; difference be¬ 
tween him and Plato, 247 ; his doc¬ 
trine of induction, 249 ; commence¬ 
ment of positive science in Aris¬ 
totle’s method, 250 ; difference be¬ 
tween the Aristotelian method and 
the method of positive science, 250; 
difference between Aristotle’s and 
Plato’s use of the term dialectics, 
252; his categories, 255; object of 
his logic, 256 ; his propositions, 
257 ; his definition of the syllo¬ 
gism, 259 ; his metaphysics, 261; 
errors in his theory, 262 ; his va¬ 
rious doctrines, 263; compared 
with Plato, his versatile intellect, 
264; results of his labors, 266 ; 
his long authority explained, 372; 
his influence on the sixteenth cen¬ 
tury, 378. 

Authority and Liberty, principles 
of, 371. 

Bacon, Francis : birth, ancestry, edu¬ 
cation, 398 ; visits France, studies 
common law, distinguished as an 
orator, 399 ; sworn a member of the 
Privy Council, appointed keeper of 
the Great Seal; created Baron Ver- 
ulam, accused of corruption, 400; 
impeached, retires from public life, 
401; his death, his method, 402; 
his four classes of idols, 402; his 
description of induction, 404; his 
doctrine illustrated, 405 ; his Pre¬ 
rogative Instances, 406; distinguish¬ 
ing characteristic of his philosophy, 
408 ; his chief merit, 409 ; division 
of his method into two parts, his 
Aphorisms, 410 ; positive tendency 
of his speculations, 411 ; his sepa¬ 
ration of science, from theology il¬ 
lustrated, 412; his declaration re¬ 
specting physics, 413 ; his testimo¬ 
nies to the genius and errors of the 
ancients, 415; the groundwork of 
his Organum, 416; his constant 
aim, 417 ; inquiry into the ori¬ 
ginality and usefulness of his 
method, objections brought against 


it by Le Maistre and Macaulay re 
futed, 420-434. 

Baillarger, M., his method for meas¬ 
uring the surfaces of the brain, 766. 
Belief and perception, difference be¬ 
tween, 585. 

Berkeley, George : birth, education, 

E ublication of his writings, visit to 
iondon, reception there, character, 
548; career, travels, preferment, 
visit to America, return to Eng¬ 
land, made Bishop of Cloyne, re¬ 
moval to Oxford, death, his ideal¬ 
ism, 549 j misunderstanding of 
him by Ins critics, his rejection of 
the noumenon explained, 550; ac¬ 
cusation brought against him re¬ 
futed, doctrine of the reality of 
things maintained by him, *552 ; 
his definition of substance , 553 ; his 
starting-point, 556; his theory of 
the origin of knowledge, 557 ; Ker¬ 
nel of his system, 558 ; his identi¬ 
fication of the object with sensa¬ 
tion, 559 ; fundamental principle 
of his theory, 560; his refutation 
of realism, 561; his triumph over 
dualism, 563 ; liis theory irrefuta¬ 
ble, 564; his main position incon¬ 
trovertible, 566 ; causes of his fail¬ 
ure, results of his labors, 569. 
Brain, function of the, 597 ; discrep¬ 
ancies in the size of the, 767. 

Bruno, Giordano, his martyrdom, 
873; rarity of his works, 374; his 
birth and disposition, character, 
adopts the Dominican frock, 375 ; 
his doubts on transubstantiation 
and respecting Aristotle, his ad¬ 
venturous course, 376 ; his perse¬ 
cutions,. 377 ; his teachers, 379 ; 
his position among teachers, his 
travels and adventures, 379-384; 
flight to Venice, thrown into pris¬ 
on, 385 ; sent to Rome, excommuni¬ 
cated and perishes at the stake, 
386 ; historical value of his system, 
character of his writings, 388 ; his 
anticipation of Spinoza and Des¬ 
cartes, impulse given by him to the 
study of Nature, 390; his creed, 
391; grandeur of his system, 392 ; 
his comedy, 393 ; his various writ¬ 
ings, 394-397. 

Cabanis, Pierre Jean Georges, 740 ; 
physiological method to be sought 
in him, 742 ; birth, profession, res¬ 
idence at Auteuil, death, his work 
entitled Rapports en Physique, his 
position in the history of philoso- 



INDEX. 


793 


phy, 742 ; his recognition of the 
unity of life and mind, 743; his 
predecessors, his physiological psy¬ 
chology, 744; results of his survey 
of the human organism, 746; object 
of his treatise, 746 ; popularity and 
influence of his work, 747. 

Carneades, birth, teachers, promo¬ 
tion to the academic chair, sent as 
ambassador to Rome, 295; influ- 
^ ence, return to Athens, death, 296. 

Cartesian doctrine, 454. 

Causation, defined, 586 ; weakness of 
the theory of, exposed, 662 ; in¬ 
stinctive belief in causation proved 
to be false, 666 ; belief in causa¬ 
tion, on what founded, 668; uni¬ 
versal causation, source of the be¬ 
lief in, 664; reflection required for 
the belief in, not an instinct, 666. 

Century, the sixteenth, its place in 
history, 377. 

Certainty, how attainable, xxxiv. 

Christology, Hegelian, Spinoza’s an¬ 
ticipation of, 466. 

Collard, Koyer, 772. 

Common sense philosophy, failure of 
and benefits conferred by, 629. 

Comte, Auguste : historical position, 
nature of his method, 776; his 
Gours de Philosophic Positive , 777; 
his inauguration of a philosophy of 
science, 778; his three initial con¬ 
ceptions, 779 ; his fundamental .aw 
of evolution, 780; nature of, 781; 
its three stages not strictly chrono- 
logical, 782; his classification of the 
fundamental sciences, 785; his in¬ 
fluence, 787. 

Condillac, Etienne de, birth, career, 
publication of his essay, appointed 
tutor to the Prince of Parma, made 
a member of the French Academy, 
publication of his Logic, death, 589 ; 
the representative of Locke in 
France, object of his Traite des Sen¬ 
sations, , peculiarity of his system, 
590 ; his misconception of Locke, 
his doctrine refuted, 591; his error 
respecting the mental faculties, 
592; his theory of sensations, 593; 
his definition of ideas, 594; the 
systematic error of his system, 597 ; 
examined into, 598, 599; destruc¬ 
tion of the basis of his system, his 
discovery that our faculties are not 
innate or even connate, 600; merits 
of his works and style, his want of 
a true psychological method, 602. 

Consciousness, limitation of, 451. 

Continuity, law of, 405. 


Cousin, Victor, 772. 

Cranioscopy, 755-759; difficulties be¬ 
setting, 760. 

Cyrenaie school, the, 173. 

Cynic school, the, 177 ; effect created 
by the school in Athens, great 
qualities of its disciples, 181; causes 
of the want of respect felt for them. 
182 . 

Dareste, Camille, his researches intu 
the convolutions of the brain, 766. 

Darwin, Erasmus: birth, studies, 
profession, his poem of the Botanic 
Garden , his Zoonomia , his theorv 
the same as Hartley’s, his. defini¬ 
tion of the word idea, 609 ; his 
conception of psychology, 610 ; hi- 
theory of vibrations, explanation of 
perception, 615; theory of beauty, 
616. 

Definitions, employment of, by Soc¬ 
rates, 153; importance of, in the 
Socratic method, 156 ; in what they 
consist, 253. 

Democritus, the laughing philoso¬ 
pher: birth, 94; character, station, 
career, anecdotes respecting, ob¬ 
scurity of his philosophy, difficulty 
of assigning him a position, 94*; 
differences between him and other 
schools, nature of his doctrine and 
teaching, his identification of sensa¬ 
tion and thought, 95; his doctrine 
of reflection, 96 ; his hypothesis to 
explain perception, 98; his doctrine 
of atomism, 99; superiority of his 
system, 100. 

Descartes, Rene: birth, parentage, 
precocity, studies, 435; travels, 
pursuits, 436 ; conceives the design 
of a reformation in philosophy, 
publication of his Piscourse on 
Method , sensation produced by it, 
visit to Stockholm, death, 437; 
character, 438 ; causes which led 
him to the invention of his method,. 
439; logical imperfection of his. 
Gogito , ergo Sum , 440; vital portion, 
of his system, 441; psychological! 
portion, 442; mathematical or de¬ 
ductive portion, 443; differences 
and resemblances between him and 
Bacon, nature and tendency of his- 
metho.d, 445 ; applications of his 
method, 446 ; weakness of his at¬ 
tempts to demonstrate the exist¬ 
ence of God, 447 ; physical specu¬ 
lations, 448; position, 450; his 
criterion examined, fallacy of his 
system, 451; fallacy of his notion 




INDEX. 


794. 

that the mind is a passive recipient, 
453; his doctrine respecting innate 
ideas, 454. 

Dialectics, Zeno of Elea, the inventor 
of, 57 ; creation of, to what owing, 
62. 

Diogenes of Apollonia: birth, tenets, 
7; theory of life, 8; the last ancient 
philosopher attached to the physi¬ 
cal method, 9. 

Diogenes of Sinope : birth, parent¬ 
age, flight to Athens, poverty, life, 
179; his ostentation, 182; charac¬ 
teristics, death, 184. 

Eclecticism, 769 ; origin and growth 
of, 771; definition of, 773; crite- 
rium, necessity of a, 774; want of 
a criterium in the system, 775; 
valuable as a subsidiary process, 
776. 

Ecstasy, faculty of, place it holds in 
Neo-Platonism, 318. 

Ego, the activity and passivity of the, 
696. 

Eleatics, the, 37. 

Empedocles, contrary opinions as to 
the place occupied by him, 83; in¬ 
terpretation of the disputed pas¬ 
sage in Aristotle respecting, 84 ; 
birth, station, espousal of the dem¬ 
ocratic party, travels, character, 
and anecdotes respecting him, 86 : 
uncertainty as to his teachers and 
his writings, 88; diversity of opin¬ 
ion with respect to his position sig¬ 
nificant, his relation to the Eleatic 
school, his resemblance to Zenoph- 
anes, 88 ; his attempts to prove the 
existence of Eeason and of the Di¬ 
vine Nature, 90 ; his attacks on an¬ 
thropomorphism, 90 ; his relation 
to the Pythagorean school, 91; ad¬ 
vance made by him on Anaxago¬ 
ras’s doctrine, 92 ; his conception 
oi God, 93. 

Epicureans, the, 274. 

Epicurus: birth, origin, and educa¬ 
tion, 274; his travels, opening of 
his school in the garden, his char¬ 
acter, accusations brought against 
him refuted, misrepresentations of 
his doctrine, 275; dislike felt for 
him by the Stoics, 276; his doc¬ 
trine and system, 277, 278; his 
ethical doctrine, psychology and 
physics, 279 ; his doctrine review¬ 
ed, 280. 

Epochs in Philosophy : first epoch— 
speculations on the nature of the 
universe. 1: second epoch—specu¬ 


lations on the creation of the uni 
verse and the origin of knowledge, 
63; third epoch—intellectual crisis, 
101; fourth epoch—a new era 
opened, 122 ; fifth epoch—partial 
adoption of the Socratic method, 
169 ; sixth epoch—complete adop¬ 
tion of the Socratic method, 186 ; 
seventh epoch—philosophy again 
reduced to a system, 241; eighth 
epoch—second crisis of Greek phi¬ 
losophy, 268 ; ninth epoch—phi¬ 
losophy allies itself with faith, 307 ; 
conclusion of ancient philosophy, 
336. Transition period, 343. First 
epoch, foundation of the inductive 
method, 398 ; second epoch—foun¬ 
dation of the deductive method, 
435; third epoch—philosophy re¬ 
duced to a question of psychology, 
495; fourth epoch—the subjective 
nature of knowledge leads to ideal¬ 
ism, 548 ; fifth epoch—the argu¬ 
ments of idealism carried out into 
skepticism, 570; sixth epoch—the 
origin of knowledge referred to 
sensation, 589; seventh epoch- 
second crisis, 618 ; eighth epoch— 
recurrence to the fundamental 
question respecting the origin of 
knowledge, 630 ; ninth epoch—on¬ 
tology reasserts its claim, 675 ; 
tenth epoch—psychology seeking 
its basis in physiology, 740; elev¬ 
enth epoch—philosophy finally re¬ 
linquishing its place in favor of 
positive science, 769. 

Euclid of Megara; birth, delight in 
listening to Socrates, 170; his re¬ 
semblance to the Eleatics, his dia¬ 
lectics, 172. 

Existence, belief in, 583. 

Experience, dispute concerning, 546 ; 
the foundation of our belief in 
causality, 663. 

Experimentum crucis, value of the, 
408. 

Fathers, the Christian, 343. 

Fichte, Johann Gottlieb : birth, pre¬ 
cociousness, 675 ; anecdotes of, 676, 
677 ; education, 678; life at Schulp- 
forte, 679 ; becomes a candidatus 
theologian, residence in Switzerland, 
acquaintance with Kant’s writ¬ 
ings, 681; writes an abridgment of 
Kant’s Kritik , 683; extracts from 
his journal, made professor of phi¬ 
losophy at Jena, 684; residence at 
Berlin, 685; death, character, his¬ 
torical position, 686 ; his opinions. 



INDEX. 


795 


his definition of faith, and place 
occupied by it in his system, 688 ; 
basis of his system, 690; his doc¬ 
trine of \he Ego and Non-Ego, 
691; his doctrine of the identity 
of Subject and Object, 692 ; his 
doctrine of the Will, 693 ; his 
idealism, his distinction between 
the Ego and Non-Ego, 694; differ¬ 
ence between him and Berkeley, 
698 ; application of his idealism, 
his doctrine of the aim of man’s 
existence, 699 ; his definition of 
Duty, his doctrine of the condition 
of existence and the freedom of the 
Ego, 700; his opinions respecting 
God, 701; his philosophy of his¬ 
tory, 702. 

Gall, Francis Joseph: birth, atten¬ 
tion early called to phrenology, 
lectures at Vienna, 749; Gall and 
Spurzheim visit Paris, quarrel be¬ 
tween them, his historical position, 
services rendered by him to phys¬ 
iology and psychology, 752; his 
influence, 753; his systematization 
of the affective faculties, 755 ; his 
anatomy of the nervous system, 
761; consequence of the abandon¬ 
ment of Gall’s method, 763 ; his 
predecessors, necessary rejection 
of his system, 764. 

German Pantheists, 706. 

Greek ethics, their range, 337. 

Greek inquiry, its results, 337. 

Greek philosophy, nature of the sec¬ 
ond crisis of, 306. 

Greek speculation, conclusions ar¬ 
rived at after reviewing the history 
of, 327. 

Hartley, David: birth, parentage, 
studies, profession, 603; publica¬ 
tion of his Treatise, misapprehen¬ 
sion of him by Dr. Parr, death, 
604 ; character, his system, his 
definition of man, 605; his opinions 
respecting mind and matter, 606; 
his theory of vibrations, applica¬ 
tion of the doctrine of association, 
607 ; position occupied by him, 608. 

Hegel, George Frederick William, 
birth, education, residence at Tu¬ 
bingen, intimacy with Schelling, 
715; residence *at Jena, publica¬ 
tion of his dissertation De Orbitis 
and his essay Grlauben und Wissen , 
intimacy with Goethe and Schiller, 
lectures at Jena, publishes his 
Phanomenologie, 716; leaves Jena 


for Bamberg and Nurnberg, mar¬ 
riage, residence at Heidelberg, pub¬ 
lishes his Encyclopddie , made pro¬ 
fessor at Berlin, death, his method, 
teaching, 717; his position, inven¬ 
tion of a new method, 718; nature 
of his method, 719; results of his 
method, 720; his doctrine respect¬ 
ing contraries, 721; process of his 
law respecting contraries, 722; his 
notion of God, his method, whith¬ 
er it led him, 723; similarity to 
Hume, 724; estimate of his phi¬ 
losophy by his disciples, 725; his 
greatness, uselessness and perni¬ 
ciousness of his system, 726; his 
logic, in what it consists, first prop¬ 
osition in his logic, how treated by 
him, 727, 730 ; his system, why 
overrated, 731; application of his 
method, 732; his Philosophy of 
Nature, 733; his Philosophy of In¬ 
telligence, his Lectures on History, 
734 ; Philosophy of Religion , 736; 
applicability of his method to all 
subjects, 737 ; analysis of his History 
of Philosophy, 738; editions and 
abridgments of his works, 739. 

Ileloise, her history, 350-355. 

Heraclitus, the crying philosopher, 
his origin, birth, and character, 
64; his philosophy, tendency of 
his doctrines, contradiction be¬ 
tween him and Xenophanes, 65; 
a materialist, 66; his doctrine a 
modification of the Ionian system, 
69 ; his explanation of phenomena, 
70; his office negative, 70. 

History, two principal epochs in, 703. 

Hobbes, Thomas, depreciation of, 
his errors, writings, 495 ; his style 
and matter, 496; his position in 
the history of philosophy; 497; 
the precursor of the eighteenth 
century-school of psychology, his 
discovery respecting our sensa¬ 
tions, 498; his definition of imagi¬ 
nation, 500 ; definition of memory, 
501; association of ideas demon¬ 
strated by him, 502; his psychol¬ 
ogy, 504; definition of understand¬ 
ing, 505. 

Humanity, five periods in the life of, 
704. 

Hume, David, birth, parentage, visit 
to France, 570; publication of his 
treatise on Human Nature , and his 
Essays , travels, publication of his 
Political Discourses and his In¬ 
quiry, appointed librarian to the 
Faculty of Advocates, publication 



m 


INDEX. 


of his History of England , his 
(ieath and character, 571; his skep¬ 
ticism, his influence on specula¬ 
tion, his theory respecting matter 
and mind, 572; unreasonableness 
of the objections to him, 573; his 
theory of the source of our reason¬ 
ing, 574; charges brought against 
him refuted, 575; nature of his 
mission, 576; his skepticism, na¬ 
ture of, 577; his theory of causa¬ 
tion, 578 ; source of the opposition 
to it, 579, 580; incompetency of 
Ids explanation of our belief in 
causation, 581. 

Idealism, unsatisfactory nature of, 
569; idealistic arguments answer¬ 
ed, 566 ; errors and truths in the 
system, 568. 

Idea, use of the word, 558. 

Ideas, innate, doctrine of, antici¬ 
pated by Parmenides, 50; ideas, 
innate, 453 : inquiry into the ori¬ 
gin of, by Locke, 518; theory of 
fundamental ideas, 583. 

Induction and Syllogism, distinction 
between, 258; nature of induction, 
404; how to be conducted, 405; 
co-ordination of its elements into 
a compact body of doctrine, 409; 
difference between simple-incau¬ 
tious, and cautious-methodical, 
423; a graduated and successive, 
insisted upon, 426; ordinary con¬ 
fused with scientific, 427 ; induc¬ 
tive method as distinguished from 
induction, inductive rules, im¬ 
portance of, overrated by Bacon, 
428. 

Intellectual operations explained, 
xxix. 

Intuitional reason, assumption re¬ 
specting, xxv. 

Ionian school, distinctive character¬ 
istics of, 2. 

Jouffroy, Thomas, 772. 

Kant, birth, parentage, education, 
ursuits, character, life at Konigs- 
erg, 630; publication of his Cri¬ 
tique of Eure Eeason , 631; death, 
relation to Swedenborg, 632 ; his¬ 
torical position, clearness of his 
system, 633; object he had in 
view, 634 ; his inquiry into the na¬ 
ture of experience, his criticism of 
the operation of the mind, problem 
he set himself to solve, his concep¬ 
tion of a purely critical philosophy, 


635; his theory of knowied re, 636 : 
his theory of the purpose of criti- 
cism, 637 ; his answer to the 
skeptic and dogmatist, 639 ; dif¬ 
ference between him and Hume, 
his theory of the veracity of con¬ 
sciousness, 640; leading points of 
his analysis of the mind, his divi¬ 
sion of judgments into analytic 
and synthetic, 641; his theory that 
mind does add something to sense- 
experience, 642; his psychology, 
object of his Critique , 644; his in¬ 
quiry into the objective reality of 
space and time, 646; his analysis 
of the forms of the understanding, 
647; his Categories , his inquiry 
into the pure forms of reason, 648 ; 
his theory of the office of reason, 
his theory of the three pure forms 
of reason, 649; consequences of 
his psychology, 650; his theory of 
an external world, 651; his theory 
of the constitution of knowledge, 
his assumption of the impossibility 
of ontology as a science, 652 ; re¬ 
sults of his analysis, 653 ; his 
theory of moral certitude, of the 
freedom of the will, 654; funda¬ 
mental principles, examination of, 
655; vital point in Ids system, 
656; his theory of causation and 
doctrine of necessary truths, 657- 
659 ; his distinction between a 
pure and an empirical cognition, 
660; Ids views on causation re¬ 
stated by W he well, 601-664 ; error 
in his theory of causation, 665-667 ; 
latest development of his doctrine. 
668; his doctrine of fundamental 
ideas, 669 ; his notion of progres¬ 
sive intuition, 670-673 ; result ot 
Ids system, 674. 

Leibnitz: his arguments against 
Locke, reputation as a philosopher 
and mathematician, 541; influence 
of the ancients over him, 542; his 
arguments respecting universality 
and necessity, his doctrine of ne¬ 
cessary truths, 543; real force ot 
his theory, 545. 

Locke, John : birth, parentage, edu¬ 
cation, life at Oxford, contempt for 
university studies, 506; his pro¬ 
ficiency in medicine, turns his at¬ 
tention to politics, travels, plans 
his Essay , 507 ; returns to Oxford, 
is deprived of his studentship, 
goes to the Hague, publication oi 
his letter on Toleration , returns tc 




INDEX. 


797 


England, publication of his Essay , 
its success, opposition excited, ac¬ 
quaintance with Newton, 50S; 
death, spirit of his writings, charges 
brought against him, 509 ; proof 
that he -did not borrow from 
Hobbes, 510, 511; his good quali¬ 
ties and originality, 512; his esti¬ 
mate of the value of hypothesis, 
his readiness to change his opin¬ 
ions, 513; characteristics of his 
Essay , 514; his method, 515; the 
founder of' modern psychology, 
516; object he had in view, 517; 
plan laid down by him in the con¬ 
duct of his inquiry, 518; his posi¬ 
tivism, 519 ; his theory of the origin 
of our ideas, 521; and of the origin 
of our knowledge, 523; his defini¬ 
tion of reflection and sensation, 
525; elements of idealism and 
skepticism in his system, 527; his 
theory of the primary and second¬ 
ary qualities of bodies, 528; his 
anticipation of the doctrine of cau¬ 
sation, 529 ; his definition of knowl¬ 
edge, his doctrine respecting sim¬ 
ple and complex ideas, 530; his 
denunciation of skepticism, 532; 
object of his essay, 533; his critics, 
533-539 ; careful study of him rec¬ 
ommended, 540. 

Logic, definition of, 252 ; object of 
Aristotle’s logic, 256 ; bad logic de¬ 
fined, 5S5. 

Macaulay, his argument against the 
originality and usefulness of Ba¬ 
con’s method refuted, 420-434. 

Materialism, principle of, stated, 493. 

Mathematicians, the, 10; collision be¬ 
tween the mathematical and physi¬ 
cal systems, 62. 

Megaric school, the, 169. 

Metaphysics, science of, denied by 
the Sophists, 121; three questions 
propounded by metaphysics, an¬ 
swered by the Alexandrian school, 
328; metaphysical and scientific 
methods, germinal difference be¬ 
tween, xxii; irrationality of spec¬ 
ulation or metaphysics, xxxi. 

Method, estimate of, by Socrates, 
158; peculiarities of a philosophi¬ 
cal method, Socratic method, its 
vagueness, 169; Aristotle’s method, 
246 : spirit of Bacon’s method, 408; 
method of verification, 410; useful¬ 
ness of Bacon’s method, 427 ; radi¬ 
cal defect of Bacon’s method, 429 ; 
Bacon’s method only indirectly use¬ 


ful, 432; Bacon’s method latent in 
the spirit of the age, no evidence 
against his originality, 433; full es¬ 
tablishment of the deductive meth¬ 
od, 444 ; Descartes’ method, good¬ 
ness of, examined, 449; Spinoza’s 
method, novelty of, 472; Locke’s 
method, 515; Hegel’s method, 717 ; 
the history of the rise of the psy¬ 
chological method, 740; the posi¬ 
tive method, 776; value of the 
positive method, 784; illustrations 
of the superiority of the positive 
method, 785; the birth of the new 
method, xvi. 

Mill, John, his strictures on the dog¬ 
ma cessante causa cessat et effect us, 
587. . 

Mysticism, infusion of, into philoso¬ 
phy, 331. 

Neo-Platonism, antagonism between 
it and Christianity, causes of its 
failure, 314; Neo-Platonic theory 
of God, 322; Neo-Platonic doctrine 
of emanation, Neo-Platonic theory 
of the origin of the world, 328 ; 
their doctrine respecting God, 329. 

Nominalism, dispute concerning, 346. 

Object, the, and sensation, want of 
correspondence between, 303. 

Ontological speculations, basis of all 
modern, 455. 

Parmenides, his birth, 48 ; wealth and 
devotion to study, his politics, char¬ 
acteristics of his philosophy, 49 ; 
his doctrine respecting the duality 
of thought, 50; his antithesis to 
i6{a always TnVm, 53; central point 
in his system, his notion on the 
science of Being, 53 ; his- doctrine 
of the identity of thought and ex¬ 
istence, 54; his physical specula¬ 
tions, ideal element introduced in¬ 
to his speculations, skeptical tend¬ 
ency of his doctrines, 55. 

Perception and reasoning, difference 
between, xxv ; perception and sen¬ 
sation, difference between, xxvi; 
nature of perception defined, 301 ; 
process of, 611. 

Philo: birth, genius, education, his 
teachers, Greek and Oriental ele¬ 
ments of his mind, 310 ; agreement 
and difference between him and 
Plato, 311; his. theology, 312. 

Philosophy, distinction between it 
and science, present decadence of, 
circular movement of, xi; spectacle 



798 


INDEX. 


presented by the history of, xii; 
definition of, ancient philosophy es¬ 
sentially metaphysical, xiii; supe¬ 
riority of science to, xiv; charac¬ 
teristics of, xv; difference between 
and science illustrated, xvi; re¬ 
garded as a system of credit, xxii: 
contrast between philosophy and 
science, xxii; proved to be impos¬ 
sible, xxx ; the initiator of science, 
xxxi; purpose of the author in 
writing the history of, xxxi; mor¬ 
al philosophy created by Socrates, 
266 ; conclusion of ancient philoso¬ 
phy, 336; influence of, 337; Chris¬ 
tian philosophy a misnomer, phi¬ 
losophy, in what it consists, 338; 
modern philosophy, commence¬ 
ment of, mediaeval philosophy, 343; 
influence of Aristotle over mediae¬ 
val philosophy, 345; emancipation 
of philosophy, 370; fundamental 
question of modern, 455 ; first cri¬ 
sis in modern philosophy, 493; re¬ 
action against the eighteenth cen¬ 
tury philosophy, 769-771 ; office of 
positive philosophy, 779; reduc¬ 
tion of positive philosophy into five 
fundamental sciences, 787 ; two 
characteristics of modern philoso¬ 
phy, present condition of, impos¬ 
sibility of a, 788. 

Phenomena, order of their depend¬ 
ence, 786. 

Phrenology, rise of, 748; changes 
made in the localization of the or¬ 
gans, 750 ; two distinct aspects of, 
755; difficulties of, 759 ; proper ob¬ 
ject of, 760; assumptions of, 761; 
initial question affecting, 765; im¬ 
portant point it has to determine, 
766 ; chaotic aspect of, 768. 

Physics, organic and inorganic, treat¬ 
ed by the positive method, 786. 

Physicists, the, 1. 

Plato: interest felt in him, his char¬ 
acter, nature of his metaphysics, 
morals, and politics, 186; parent¬ 
age, birth, and education, 188; his 
skepticism, and correction of, by 
Socrates, his travels, 189 ; his lec¬ 
tures, 191; their purely argument¬ 
ative character, visit to Sicily, 192; 
sold as a slave, visit to Syracuse, 
death, disposition, 103; character 
of his writings, 195; his Dialogues 
and Epistles , various of them spu¬ 
rious, 165, 166; his opinions illus¬ 
trated in Lis Dialogues, 197 ; design 
of his Dialogues , his dialectics, 199 ; 
Attempts to classify his Dialogues , 


chronology of, 201; necessity for a 
positive arrangement of his works, 
variations in his opinions, 203, 204; 
new classification of his works pro¬ 
posed, purpose of his Dialogues , 
206 ; his method, nature of his phi¬ 
losophy, 207; nature of his method, 
209 ; his conception of philosophy 
as dialectics, his great dogma, 210; 
his theory of general terms, 212; 
his doctrine of ideas, 214-216; his 
psychology illustrated, 216-220; his 
doctrine of innate ideas, 221; his 
doctrine of recollection, 222 ; divi¬ 
sion of his philosophy into two 
branches, 223 ; passage from the 
Republic illustrative of his method, 
224; his doctrine of rational and 
sensitive souls, his system a resume 
of the conflicting tendencies of his 
age, 226 ; summary of his dialectics, 
227; his theology and cosmology, 
228 ; his analogical reasoning, 229 ; 
his doctrine of evil, 231; doctrine 
of metempsychosis as applied by 
him, 232; his view of the beautiful 
and the good, 233; his ethics, 236; 
contradictions in his ethical opin¬ 
ions, his Republic , 236-240. 

Platonic philosophy, central error of, 
154. f 

Platonism, its union with Oriental 
mysticism, 312. 

Plotinus, 314; his agreement with 
Plato, 316; his resemblance to Ger¬ 
man metaphysicians, 324; spirit of, 
revived by Schelling, 710. 

Position of the Socratic method in 
the history of speculation, 266. 

Process, the exclusive, necessity of, 
insisted on, 406. 

Proclus: birth, visit to Alexandria 
and Athens, his theological tend¬ 
ency, 332; his estimate of faith, his 
method, 333; his assumption re¬ 
specting mathematics, 334; his as¬ 
sertion respecting the mind, 335; 
the last of the ancient philosophers, 
336. 

Prophetism, 368. 

Protagoras, the first avowed Sophist, 
his studies, resemblance between 
him and Heraclitus, his doctrine of 
sensation, 116 ; a teacher of moral¬ 
ity, 119. 

Psychology, lesson taught by, xxix; 
its assumption of the place of on¬ 
tology, 493; reason of the im¬ 
portance it has assumed, 494; 
psychological method, history ol 
the, 740; necessity of its estab- 




INDEX. 


lishment on a physiological basis, 
768. 

Pyrrho, founder of the skeptical phi¬ 
losophy, contrast between him and 
Socrates, 268; his doctrine, irre- 
coverabiiity of, 269. 

Pythagoras: birth, 15; one of the 
great founders of mathematics, fa¬ 
bles current about him, 16 ; proba¬ 
bility of his having visited Egypt, 
unlikelihood of his having been in¬ 
structed by Egyptian priests, 17; 
invention of the word 'philosopher 
by him, 18; its interpretation, his 
secret society, 19; political career 
20 ; residence at Croton, difference 
between him and his predecessors, 
21; risings against him, death, 22; 
musical scale invented by him, his 
philosophy, 23; his doctrines a con¬ 
tinuation of Anaximander’s, uncer¬ 
tainty as to the genuineness of the 
opinions ascribed to him, no peculiar 
doctrines attributed to him by Plato 
and Aristotle, his oral teaching, 24 ; 
his theory of numbers, 26; his doc¬ 
trines contained in a few mystical 
sentences, 30; his opinions on sub¬ 
sidiary points, his doctrine of the 
transmigration of souls, 31; his doc¬ 
trines in relation to the preceding 
philosophy, 32; the representative 
of the second branch of Ionian phi¬ 
losophy, 33. 

Pythagoreans, celebrated, Pythago¬ 
rean school, its method and ten¬ 
dency, why called the mathemati¬ 
cal, 25 ; Pythagorean system, a 
verbal quibble at the foundation of, 
27 ; Pythagorean formula, mistake 
as to its meaning by Hitter and 
others, 28; Pythagorean doctrine, 
33 ; translations from Aristotle’s 
Metaphysics respecting, 34-36. 

Realism and Nominalism, origin of the 
dispute between, 211. 

Reasoning, how conducted in Bacon’s 
time, 425. 

Reformers, sixteenth century, spirit 
common to the, 377. 

Reid, Thomas: birth, education, made 
Professor of Moral Philosophy at 
Aberdeen, publication of his In¬ 
quiry into the Human Mind and of 
} i is Essays on the Intellectual Powers , 
death, his philosophy, 618 ; his mis¬ 
statement of Locke, 619 ; his refu¬ 
tation of the Ideal theory, 620; his 
attack on skepticism, 621; his the¬ 
ory of perception and instinct, 623 ; 
diiference between the Ideal hy¬ 


790 

pothesis and Reid’s theory, the 
great point in his theory, 625; his 
theory of ideas of sensation, 627 ; 
diiference between Reid and Berke¬ 
ley, his mistake respecting the ori¬ 
gin of knowledge, 628. 

Reminiscence, doctrine of, implied in 
a passage from the Phcedo, 220. 

Republic , the, of Plato, difficulty of 
determining its date, 201. 

Revolution, the French, and material¬ 
ism, fancied association between, 
770. 

Rome and the Eastern schools of phi¬ 
losophy, xxxii; Roman philosophy, 
308. 

Sensation, growth of, 525: impossi 
bility of displacing by an idea, 596 ; 
distinction between sensation and 
ideation, 597 ; sensation independ¬ 
ent of thought, 599; dependent on 
the sensational centre, 613; visual 
sensation, how produced, 614. 

Sensation school, the, 589; sensation 
al centres, 598. 

Skeptics, mistakes made by the an¬ 
cient, nature of their influence, 
271; main position of skepticism, 
621; skepticism not refuted by 
Reid’s theory, 622. 

Schelling: birth, studies at Tubingen, 
friendship with Hegal, residence at 
Jena and Berlin, death, 705; his 
doctrines, his pantheistic tendency, 
706; his improvement on Fichte’s 
doctrine, 707 ; diiference between 
him and Fichte, the Ego in Schel- 
ling’s system, 709 ; function of rea¬ 
son in his system, 710; three divi¬ 
sions in his system, his speculations 
on Nature, 711; luminousness of 
some of his ideas, 712 ; his opinion 
of science, results of his specula¬ 
tions, 713; similarity and diiference 
between him and Spinoza, differ¬ 
ence between their methods, 714. 

Science, linear progress of, xi; sci¬ 
ences, progressive development of, 
777 ; present condition of, 784. 

Scientific method, its superiority, 
xxii. 

Scholasticism, 343; manifestations of 
the philosophical element in, 344. 

Schoolmen, the error committed by, 
346. 

Scotch philosophy, failure of, 629._ 

Socrates: his opinions respecting 
Anaxagoras, 78; his life, antagon¬ 
ism between him and the Sophists, 
his mission, 122 ; treatment by the 



800 


INDEX. 


Sophists, effect produced by him, 
his personal appearance, 123; his 
qualities, 125; his birth, parents, 
education, and early studies, 127 ; 
his wife, his military services, 128 ; 
anecdotes respecting him, 129; his 
public career, 130 ; conduct as Epis- 
tates, 132; mistaken for a Sophist, 
133; his mode of disputation, 134 ; 
his tastes and habits, 135 ; his daily 
occupation, 136; his enemies, 137'; 
his condemnation, apology for the 
Athenians, 138; his alleged impiety, 
139 ; his religious opinions, 140; his 
trial, 141; speech made by him, 
142; his behavior in the prospect of 
death, 143; impression produced 
by it on Phaedo, 144; the closing 
scene, 145; his character, 147 ; his 
philosophy, new method invented 
by him, 148; his use of the terms 
genus and species , 149 ; assertion re¬ 
specting his anticipation of Bacon's 
method, differences and resem¬ 
blances between him and Bacon, 
151; drift of his questioning, 153 ; 
the founder of a new epoch, 155; 
his opinion of physical speculation, 
156; philosophic basis given by him 
to the doctrine of the immortality of 
the soul, 160; his arguments in fa¬ 
vor of a beneficent Providence, 161- 
165; conjectures respecting his de¬ 
mon, 166 ; his statement respecting 
the Divine Voice , 167; Socrates’ phi¬ 
losophical career justified, 199; sum¬ 
mary of the Socratic movement, 
266; benefit conferred by the So¬ 
cratic epoch, 267. 

Sophos , meaning of the word, 19. 

Sophists, the, much calumniated, 102; 
cause of the dislike felt for them by 
Plato, 103 ; meaning of the word, 
104; vagueness of the term, 105; 
various assertions respecting them 
proved to be false, 106 ; their teach¬ 
ing, 107; art taught by them, not 
reprehensible, 108; art of disputa¬ 
tion taught by them, 109 ; their art 
compared with forensic oratory, 
111; their popularity, 112 ; estima¬ 
tion of their art by the Greeks, 113 ; 
doctrines taught by them ethical, 
examination of their doctrines, 114; 
ditference between them and the 
Skeptics, 118; their opinion of ora¬ 
tory, the natural production of the 
opinions of the epoch, 120. 

Soufism, 369. 

Speculation, tendency of early philo¬ 
sophical, 3. 


Spinoza: his childhood, 456; his pa¬ 
rents, his early passion for study, 
his doubts, 457 ; summoned before 
the Rabbins, withdraws from the 
synagogue, 458 ; his attempted as¬ 
sassination, his excommunication, 
459 ; his subsequent career, his love 
for his master’s daughter, 460 ; his 
disappointment, his Latin studies, 
461 ; leaves Amsterdam for Ley¬ 
den, writes his abridgment of the 
Meditations of Descartes, sensation 
produced by it, his residence at the 
Hague, 462; declines the chair of 
philosophy at Heidelberg, beauty 
of his course of life, 463; his pov¬ 
erty, 464; publication of his Tractu- 
tus Theologico-Politicus , 465 ; state 
of things in Holland on its appear¬ 
ance, 466 ; his character, amuse¬ 
ments, death, 468 ; his doctrine, a 
logical development of the system 
of Descartes, 469 ; his doctrine of 
Substance , 470; his agreement with 
Descartes, 471; novelty ofhis meth¬ 
od, his Definitions , 472; his Axiom#, 
474; his notions on cause and 
effect, 475 ; his Propositions and 
Corollaries , 476-478 ; his proof of 
the existence of Substance , his the¬ 
ology, 4S0; his exposition of his 
doctrine completed, causes why it is 
branded as atheistical, 481; his doc¬ 
trine of Final Causes , 482; his de¬ 
monstration of the anthropomor¬ 
phic tendency of judging infinite by 
finite wisdom, 484 ; impression left 
on the mind by his theological sys¬ 
tem, 485; initial error of his sys¬ 
tem, 486; whence it arises, 487 ; 
logical perfection of his system, his 
criticism of Bacon, 490 ; justifica¬ 
tion of his employment of the geo¬ 
metrical method, 491. 

Stoics, the, 281 ; Stoical doctrine, 
analogy between the Stoics and the 
Scotcn philosophers, their ethical 
doctrine, 289 ; tendency of their 
ethical formula, 291; mistakes made 
by them, merits and demerits of 
Stoicism, 292. 

Systems, errors at the root of philo¬ 
sophical, 14. 


Table-turning, xvi. 

Thales, father of Greek speculation, 
birth, origin of his activity in poli¬ 
tics, 1 ; a proficient in mathemati¬ 
cal knowledge, 2; his attempt to 
discover the beginning of things, 
8 ; his philosophy in harmony with 


MAR 111949 



INDEX. 


801 


ancient opinions, wrongly accused 
of atheism, 4; his speculations, in¬ 
ductive in their nature, 14. 

Timseus and Archytas, works attrib¬ 
uted to them, spurious, 24. 

Timceus , Aristotle’s comment on the, 

200 . 

Truths, necessary and contingent, 
671; nature of contingent truths, 
673. 

Universals, importance of the dispute 
concerning, 356. 

Van Ileusde’s arrangement of Plato’s 
works, 205. 

Verification of particulars, the distin¬ 
guishing characteristic of the sci¬ 
entific method, xxx. 

Verification, graduated, systematiza¬ 
tion of, 408. 

Villers, Charles, his letter to Cuvier, 
750. 

Xenophanes: birth, a cultivator of 
elegiac and gnomic poetry, banish¬ 
ment, and wanderings as a rhapso- 
dist, poverty and fanaticism, 37; 
a monotheist, 38; his doctrine re¬ 
specting Truth, disagreement be¬ 
tween his doctrines and those of 
Pythagoras, few of his rhapsodies 
extant, 39; conclusions arrived at 
by him, 41; the head of the Mono¬ 


theists and Skeptics, his philoso- 
hy, attempted solution of the pro- 
lem of existence, 42; explanation 
of his notion respecting God, con¬ 
tradiction between his opinions, 43 ; 
his pantheism, his monotheism dif¬ 
ferent from anthropomorphism, a 
monotheist only in contradiction to 
his polytheistical contemporaries, 
44; nature of his skepticism, 46 ; 
his conceptions of the Deity, 47; 
his influence on the progress of 
speculation, 48. 

Zeno, alias Palamedes of Elea, 55; 
character, political activity, cap¬ 
tured by Nearchus, 56: death, his 
philosophy, the inventor of dialec¬ 
tics, 57 ; the first prose writer, 58; 
difference between him and Parme¬ 
nides, his doctrine of one existence 
and many appearances, his argu¬ 
ments respecting motion, 59; his 
Achilles puzzle, 60; its refutation, 
61; Zeno, the terminator of the 
second great line of independent 
inquiry, 62. 

Zeno, the Stoic: birth, origin, pur¬ 
suits, studies, career, 281; founds 
a school, his character, personal ap¬ 
pearance, death, 282; his philoso¬ 
phy, psychology, 284; Ms theory 
of sensation, 286. 

















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